Legacies
Let not mercy and truth forsake you; tie them around your neck; write them upon the tablet of your heart
Proverbs 3:3 (MKJV)
Prelude - The Legacy of Albus Dumbledore
Crucio!
Draco staggered as the force of the spell hit him. Tendrils of pain wrapped themselves around his muscles, sank their teeth into his tendons and began gnawing at his bones. He fought the pain as long as he could, but soon found himself prostrate on the ground as unbelievable agony enveloped his body and pulsated through every cell of his body.
Even when the pain ceased to renew itself, and Draco knew that the spell had ended, the lingering march of stiletto heeled hippogriffs through his anatomy remained. He gasped for air, and clawed at the soft earth beneath him. Despite hoods and masks, the imposing figure of Lucius Malfoy, his father, was easily identifiable. Pale gray eyes pierced both the darkness of shadow and the lingering haze of pain, blazing contempt towards anything that might writhe on the ground in such a manner, especially if that thing happened to be his own son.
"Do you accept your place as my servant and swear the obedience to me that is rightfully mine?"
Draco tried to speak, but found his voice to be simply a hoarse croak. He must have screamed more than he had been aware. He had seen others under the effect of the cruciatus, and had thought them weak and pathetic. Not that he'd ever had any intentions of experiencing such a thing, but he had been sure, that if he were ever the target, it would be different, that he was stronger, more resistant. He was no longer able to maintain that illusion.
"Answer me, Worm! Or do you wish to learn the consequences of disobedience already?"
"Y-Yes, My Lord. I will obey. I swear it with my life." Speaking required energy Draco didn't think he had, but some how he managed.
"You can not bargain with what is already mine, Worm. The sooner you realize that, the better. You have however, answered well. Stand and receive my mark."
Slowly, Draco pulled himself to his feet where he wavered unsteadily. "Yes, My Lord" he murmured as he bared his arm and extended it. In a flash, the dark figure before him produced a dagger and sliced a six-inch wound along the length of Draco's fore arm. Blood immediately welled forward and began dripping to the ground, forming small puddles that glistened in the flickering firelight. Roughly the figure brought the wound to his mouth and began to drink the blood. Pouring from Draco's artery.
"You have nothing that is not mine, and do not think for a second that I will not cease your pitiful existence should the whim strike me. You are mine."
On a cue unnoticed by Draco as his surrounding spun uneasily around him, another hooded figure stepped forward with a white-hot piece of metal. The speaker took the glowing brand and mashed it into Draco's open wound. Draco collapsed under the fresh assault of pain. It was not the cruciatus, it was far to localized for that. But where the all-encompassing pain of the unforgivable curse quickly forced one into a detached consciousness, this new assault left him aware enough to experience every agonizing second.
He was released, and gravity pulled him gracelessly to the ground. Unable to move, and with the smell of his own burnt flesh strong in his nostrils, Draco gave up all pretense of pride and let the darkness envelop him. He had taken the first step towards his destiny tonight. He was a Death Eater.
Stars flickered overhead, blinking at Draco as he could not blink in return. The ceremony was over and the crowd of Death Eaters began to disperse. Draco's field of view remained fixed - even the energy required to move his eyes remained at arm's length. Shadows fleeted and evaporated around the periphery of his vision, until only one remained. One shadow, with that same wilting glare that had haunted him since childhood remained. The gaze flickered then doused itself, then that shadow too, like all the others faded away.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ronald Weasley stepped uneasily off of the rickety contraption know as the Knight Bus. No sooner had his feet touched the ground, than the noisy vehicle lurched forward and apparated towards its next destination with a loud bang. A whooshing of air filled the space where it had once been.
Ron took a deep breath to steel his resolve, ran his hand over his head to smooth his surprisingly slicked down hair, and made a gesture at straightening out the unfamiliar Muggle clothing he wore. Satisfied he could do no more, he stepped off of the coarse gray pavement of the street onto the neat brick sidewalk before him, and up the walkway to the house before him. Taking another anxious breath, he knocked on the door.
Seconds later, a handsomely dressed woman answered. "May I help you?" she asked politely.
Ron's heart pounded savagely in his chest. "Yes, ma'am. I'm here to see Hermione," he answered as calmly as he could.
The woman smiled at him warmly. "You must be Ron then. I'm Hermione's mum. Please, come in."
Ron followed her through the finest house he had ever seen. The rooms were furnished in brightly polished antiques, surrounded by pastel walls, decorated by demure paintings, Ron was sure represented fine art. He began to second guess himself and wonder at the wisdom of his coming here.
"Hermione! You have a visitor!" The woman called out. Ron sat uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa he had been shown to.
A few seconds later, Hermione came bouncing down the stairs in a yellow print sundress, her hair following in a cloud behind her. Ron's face brightened visibly as the room filled with her presence.
"Ron, what are you doing here?" Hermione asked, but not nearly with the warmth with which Ron had hoped.
"Oh. You know, came to meet your mother.:
"Ron! You did no such thing!"
"I came to see you, of course. I wanted to ask you something." Ron tapered off.
"Did you decide to buckle down and start studying for your OWLS early? I'm impressed," Hermione smiled.
"The world does not revolve around OWLS, Hermione! Honestly, sometimes I don't know why I bother."
"Why do you bother, Ron?"
"Because.. I care about you, Hermione."
Hermione's expression softened. "I care about you too, Ron. So what did you come to ask?"
Ron inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. "I came to ask you not to go to Bulgaria."
Hermione frowned, "And why shouldn't I?"
"Viktor, he's all wrong for you. He goes to a school most famous for producing dark wizards. He."
"And you don't think I am capable of making a wise decision on my own? You think I need your help?" Hermione's voice was raised, her face flushed, and as if responding to her anger, her hair seemed to become even bushier.
Ron deflated, and his eyes turned towards the floor. "No," he answered, "it's not that."
"Well, what is it then?" Hermione demanded.
Ron's face reddened. "I.like you, Hermione"
"And I like you too, Ron"
"I more than like you. I was hoping that you felt the same way and wouldn't go see Viktor because of that." Ron's face very nearly matched the color of his hair now.
Hermione smiled. "Ron, I won't go to Bulgaria"
"You won't?" Ron looked up and his expression transformed into a broad grin. "And the other."
Hermione smiled at him. "I feel that way about you too."
The mood became awkward. Each of them began to fidget unsure what to do next. Ron took a step closer and began to lean in. Hesitantly, Hermione did the same until their lips just began to touch. Lips on lips, they both began to relax a bit.
They broke away from the kiss with broad grins on their faces, staring into each other's eyes. Hermione started to giggle and Ron laughed in return. They made another attempt to kiss, but this only made them laugh harder.
"Ok, that's enough," Hermione spat out, trying desperately to keep a straight face.
Ron nodded in agreement, but kept the silly grin plastered across his face. "So you'll be my girlfriend?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes, but." she said with her expression turning serious.
Ron's expression quickly followed suit. "But?" he asked.
"It's kind of hard to explain really," Hermione answered, pulling her fingers back through her hair. "I don't want to be just a girlfriend. I. we. have important things to do in our life. Since we became friends, I've never been able to imagine the future without you in it. You, Harry, and I have big things ahead of us. I want to make a mark on the world, but I want to do it as Hermione, not as Ron's girlfriend."
"Hermione," Ron said softly, eyes wide with sincerity. "How can you think that would ever be possible? You are the smartest witch who ever lived. I'm much more likely to go through life as 'Hermione's boyfriend' than you are as 'Ron's girlfriend'. I do understand how you feel though. I have similar feelings myself."
"About me?" asked Hermione, taken aback.
"No, never about you," Ron answered. "I've always been 'another one of those Weasleys'. I want to be someone in my own right, be known for something I've done as an individual. Being friends with you and Harry has been great in some ways, but in others, it has just made things worse. Now, when I'm not a Weasley, I'm Harry's sidekick. Harry is my friend, but I don't want to live my whole life in his shadow."
Hermione looked at him sympathetically. "You're more than that, Ron," she whispered. "Together, we'll make sure of that. With my brains and your spirit, we can do anything together."
"Don't forget the good looks," Ron grinned. "I am blessed that way."
"Really, Ron," Hermione replied indignantly, her hair bristling again. "Sometimes you are just too much."
"It is a burden to have this much charm and good looks you know," Ron said smugly. "You should be relieved that you don't have to deal with it."
"So you're implying that I'm neither good looking nor charming?" Hermione asked with a raised eyebrow and an expression quickly approaching anger.
"Of course not," answered Ron with a crooked grin. "You can be very charming."
Hermione drew back and slapped at him. Ron deflected her blow easily. "You're so full of yourself, Ronald Weasley. Someday, someone is going to knock you down a peg and wipe that silly grin off of your face."
Ron's smile only grew. "It won't be you though," he said defiantly. Hermione swung with her other hand and again, Ron easily deflected it. "Did I ever tell you," he asked, "that you're stunning when you're angry?"
"You're a git, you know," Hermione's face flickered with anger. Ron winked at her in reply. Hermione moved closer until their lips touched once again. Arms wrapped themselves in knots, clinging tightly as hands ran through hair and caressed tender, back-of-neck skin. Eyes closed and the world of sight and sound vanished and was replaced by one of tactile sensation and the simple overwhelming need to be as close as possible.
"Hermione Granger! What are you doing?"
As if doused by ice water, they both turned around in shock. Mrs. Granger stood in the doorway holding a tray with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. Her expression was one of total disbelief.
Mortified, Ron stuttered and stammered. "I think I had better be going."
"Yes," Mrs. Granger nodded emphatically, "I think you should."
Ron made straight for the door, only turning around once. "I'll owl you, Hermione"
Hermione smiled at him. "Good bye, Ron. I'll owl you too."
Quietly Ron closed the door and was gone.
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Harry stepped out of the Burrow and into open night air. The night was alive with sounds - frogs and crickets laid down a two-part rhythm while owls hooted softly and nigh insects buzzed in counterpoint all topped off by the intermittent rustle of leaves in the gentle summer breeze. There was one final piece to the nocturnal symphony though, the one that had driven Harry outside in the first place - A harsh staccato "Harry!" first in a male voice, then in a female voice.
Ignoring the call of his name, Harry slipped into a small hollow in the hedgerow that separated what was Weasley in the world from what was not. He had discovered it one day while de-gnoming the garden and claimed it as his own. At the time, he had thought of it warmly, that in this of all places, he was at home enough to have a little spot for himself. Now however, that he was using it as a refuge from his friends, it brought him little comfort.
Leaves and small branches embraced him as he settled down to make himself comfortable. As much as anyplace else, the Burrow was home. He could almost feel himself drawing strength from the ground he sat on and from the air he breathed. It wasn't fair that 'they' had to make things miserable for him. Staring at the night sky through a green filter, he allowed himself to relax and his mind to wander, unfocussed, across the landscape of his life.
He felt restless and discontent, unable to maintain focus. The comfort he'd sought to find here had eluded him. His friends were busy discovering new facets to each other. It was understandable of course, and in the same circumstances he was sure that he would be doing the same. This was a dangerous train of thought, not a path he wanted to tread, but the lure was too strong for him to ignore.
Those were circumstances he just couldn't allow. Maybe someday, but not now, no matter how much he wanted it. To be Harry Potter was to be alone, it seemed, and maybe it was better that way. People died around him, bad things happened to them.it was probably best for all parties concerned. He'd seen Cho at Cedric's funeral, and he could imagine how Ron or Hermione might react if one lost the other. He could not imagine though how he might react if he were to lose someone so close. To whom would he turn then? Loneliness was just something he would have to learn to cope with.
Why couldn't he have a normal life? Not Dursley normalcy, obviously - he had no desire to give up wizardry. He wanted to have a real life though: to have parents and a family of his own, to have friends without worrying that his presence might shorten their life span, to be able to look forward to a future that didn't include the certainty of his own untimely death.
Some time later, he could tell because the moon had risen and begun to arc its way across the sky, there was a new strain added to the nocturnal music, a soft and delicate sotto voce to offset the atonality that caused him to flee.
"Harry?"
Harry remained silent, unwilling to give up his tranquility.
"I know you're out here. I saw you leave. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."
"I'm fine," Harry answered. "I just needed a bit of quiet and fresh air - to clear my mind."
"And no wonder with the racket those two are making."
Harry turned so that he could see the speaker. It was Ginny of course, who else would come to see where he'd gone off to? She was standing there near the door, in her summer dress, and with a sweater thrown over her shoulders. The silvery light of the moon reflected from her hair, and seemed to simply hover around her outline in an ethereal glow. It was an otherworldly sight, one that momentarily took his breath away.
"I'll leave you alone, then" Ginny said and turned towards the door.
"Wait. Don't go." Harry said, almost instantly wondering why he'd done so.
Ginny turned without question, and took a seat beneath the tree, using its trunk as a backrest. Harry studied her closely from his hiding place. There, in the shadows, the moonlight was gone and it was the same Ginny he'd known for four years, but still he studied as if seeing her for the first time. She didn't have the austere beauty of Cho Chang, but there was something about her, something in the eyes and something else - a flame that seemed to radiate outward. Once aware of it, he could feel its warmth, and wondered why he'd never noticed it before.
The door rattled open, and a shock of red hair emerged. "Ginny," it demanded, "have you seen Harry?"
Harry cringed but Ginny spoke up before he could even decide what to do. "No, I haven't seen him - at least not out here. Have you looked upstairs?"
"Where could he be hiding?" Ron wondered aloud. "I swear, living with those Muggles has rattled his brain." The door slammed shut and they were alone again.
"Thanks, Ginny," Harry said softly "You didn't have to lie for me though"
"I didn't lie," Ginny answered with a smile, "I haven't actually seen you. You're there in the bushes and for all I know, you might be using ventriloquism."
Harry couldn't help but smile to himself. Something in her eyes, he thought to himself, they can see me even when I am hidden.
"Can I ask you a question, Harry?"
"Sure," Harry replied.
"Are you jealous? Of Ron and Hermione, I mean."
"No," Harry answered emphatically, but then paused to think about his answer. "Yes. No. Not really. I miss my friends, I miss it being the three of us instead of those two and then me. I miss being able to talk to them instead everything being an argument, or a power play with me caught in the middle. I am glad that they are happy - if they are happy, but I need my friends. I've come to depend on them more than I realized, and without them I'm simply alone."
"No, Harry" Ginny said, shaking her head, "You are never alone."
The words and the way that Ginny said them hit Harry like a weight. The unidentifiable something began to resolve itself. Harry contemplated the implications but remained unsure of what to do about it. He had an idea of what he was supposed to do, he had seen enough Muggle movies to recognize such a moment, but unsure of his own feelings, such actions seemed false.
A storm raged with in his chest. This thing that he wanted so badly - he didn't even really know what it was, but he knew that it was what Ginny was offering him. He had denied himself even the idea of it for so long, not even allowing himself to think about it, that he no longer knew even how to accept it once it was freely offered.
When he was completely honest with himself, he didn't know if he was capable of this, or even if he should allow it. The image of Cedric's cold and lifeless body came unbidden to his mind, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes, reminding him of the consequences one faced being anywhere near him. What if Ginny were to suffer the same fate? How would he live with himself if that were to happen?
There was another side to the argument though. There were no graphic images to promote it, only a small voice that asked hard questions. Would he live the rest of his life in fear? Would he allow the possibility of tragedy, a possibility that everyone faced, regardless of who they were, force him into solitude for the rest of his life?
There were no clear paths on the road of life, but one had to walk them just the same. He didn't know which was the right one, but he was never one to give in to fear. There were a lot of unknowns, but he knew that he didn't want to simply push Ginny away. He would make his own way. He stood up, emerging from his hiding place. Leaves decorated his shoulders like confetti.
"I don't know what to say, Ginny," he said taking a new seat near, but facing her.
"You don't have to say anything," Ginny answered. "I know where I stand. on the outside that is. but my heart doesn't care about that. I don't know what I am to you - just Ron's little sister perhaps, or maybe just another silly girl with a silly crush, but to me this is real. I don't know what to do, or what I can do, but trust me Harry, as long as I am breathing, you will never, ever be alone."
"I wish that I could tell you I felt the same way," started Harry, "but I really don't know how I feel. I feel something, but I don't know what to call it. I'm honored, and flattered, and. something, but I need to take the time to figure out what that is. I don't think you're silly though."
Ginny's nodded thoughtfully, not really sure of her own feelings at the moment. "Take all of the time you need."
"I can promise you one thing," Harry said. "You won't be on the outside anymore. At the very least we can be friends."
Ginny smiled. "At the very least," she added.
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"Albus," Professor McGonagall exclaimed, "You know that this is a trap, how can you simply play into his hands this way?"
"Because it is what I must do, Minerva," Professor Dumbledore answered quietly. "Life is but a stage and we are merely players. Each of us must play our part, some short and some long. Mine has been longer than most and it is not yet over. Divination aside, the future is not written until it becomes the past and even then all is not necessarily as it seems."
"Nice metaphor, but I rather doubt that the prowess of You-Know-Who extends to Muggle literature. Words do not change the reality of the situation we now face."
"Never underestimate the power of the metaphor, dear friend. The time has come that I must depart. Remember what you must do. The others will not be so easily persuaded, but you must prevail."
"I give you my word, Albus."
"Goodbye, Minerva. I will miss you."
"Goodbye, Albus" Professor Dumbledore did not hear her though, and the space where he had stood only seconds before was now filled by empty air.
Professor Dumbledore stepped cautiously though crumbling stone pillars, past fallen buttresses towards the inner keep of an ancient castle. The air was filled with the tang of salt, the crash of surf, and the roar of wind blowing in from the Irish Sea. The old wizard moved deliberately towards massive oaken doors, amazingly intact given their surroundings. With a casual flick of his wand, the doors opened and he stepped inside.
Inside was a relative term. The interior of the keep was in no better shape than the exterior. The Western Wall had collapsed to give what might have been a splendid view under other conditions. As the professor made his way though the debris, shadows moved around the periphery of his vision. Heedless, Dumbledore continued until he reached the fallen outer wall and looked out over the sea below him.
"I didn't bring you here to admire the view, old man" said a voice, dry and harsh, like scales across gravel.
"You are late, Tom," Dumbledore answered without turning to face the speaker. "I remember you as always being the prompt one. Perhaps the years in the void have dulled your sense of propriety. Besides, when one is as old as I am, one learns that such sights are not to be taken for granted."
"Propriety." spat Lord Voldemort, "You speak of such things, and then use that filthy Muggle name. You are no longer my professor, and even if you were, it wouldn't change the fact that you are a silly, old fool. You were when I was your student, and you are more the fool for all the years that have passed. The years have brought you senility while they have brought me strength and power. Your time is done, and mine is now."
At last Dumbledore turned to face his former student. From out of the night sky, a very aged Phoenix arrived and landed on his shoulder. Lord Voldemort laughed.
"Time has addled you," the Dark Lord laughed. "I really did expect some trickery from you, some sort of reinforcements, but a bird?"
"A Phoenix," Dumbledore answered.
"I can see that it's a Phoenix," hissed Voldemort. "A very tired and ancient Phoenix. as tired and old as you," he added with a sneer.
Dumbledore brought the bird down to perch on his wrist. "You would be wise not to underestimate the power of the Phoenix, Tom Riddle. To do so might very easily be your undoing."
Voldemort looked at his old professor with an incredulous expression, then at the feathered creature the same way. As if his gaze held a power all its own, the phoenix immediately burst into flames. In mere seconds, the magical bird existed only as a pile of ashes on the old stone floor.
Once again, Voldemort laughed. "You silly, old, pathetic, git! You're barely worth the magic it will require to kill you."
Albus Dumbledore's face remained devoid of all expression, and he made no response.
"Avada Kedavra!" Lord Voldemort shouted, and a bolt of sickly green energy leapt from his wand. Professor Dumbledore's body fell to the ground lifeless and bearing the same void expression.
Voldemort's face held a look of contempt. "How disappointing," he drawled. "I was at least hoping for a struggle, maybe a bit of pleading." He spat at the corpse and turned to head towards the door. "Come, there is more work to be done."
From out of the shadows, a host of black-hooded figures emerged to follow their master into the darkness of night.
Long after their departure something stirred in the ruined keep. On the old stone floor, lay a pile of ashes, and from that small acrid mound emerged the beak of a newborn Phoenix
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The air rumbled with the sound of ancient voices. A full dozen of England's most powerful wizards voiced their opinions over the recent turn of events.
"How could Dumbledore have been such a fool?"
"I've never been one to question the Albus' wisdom," grumbled the oldest of those present. "but he has left us in a terrible position. The Dark Lord grows stronger by the minute, and now we are without both a leader and the strongest of our number. Albus Dumbledore was more than just a powerful wizard, he was a symbol. Three generations of Wizards have slept more soundly at night knowing that he was there to defend them. The magic he wielded might possibly be compensated for by numbers, but without a uniting symbol, those numbers are never going to appear."
Professor McGonagall stood and cleared her throat. Somewhat to her surprise, the room quieted. "No one here was closer to Albus than I, and no one feels his loss more keenly. I cannot claim to know exactly what he was thinking when he voluntarily walked to his own doom, but I do know that he didn't do so lightly, and neither did he do so without taking the issues you have raised into account."
"He would have done well to have shared with the rest of us." The old one mumbled. "You-Know-Who will not let this time of weakness pass un- exploited."
"You make it sound as if we are completely defenseless, Walpole" spoke a new voice. "The Auror Corps has redoubled its efforts and stands constantly vigilant. When the Dark Lord moves, we will be there to meet him."
"No one is questioning the dedication of the Aurors, Mr. Moody but how many fully trained Aurors do you have? A few hundred at best, and of those, how many of them can you be absolutely assured of their loyalty? How many Aurors changed sides during You-Know-Who's last rise to power?"
"Now see here!" Mad Eye Moody roared. "My Aurors are out there every day putting there lives on the line, and I will not stand for you calling their loyalty into question."
"It's not a matter of loyalty, Moody," another old wizard voiced.
"That's right," resumed Walpole, "It's a matter of numbers. If the forces of darkness increase in numbers, then the forces of light must do the same or perish. To rally the good witches and wizards of England together requires a leader. The sword of Gryffindor must be unsheathed, but by whose hand?"
Professor McGonagall, who had remained standing through this exchange, once again cleared her voice. "There is one," she said quietly. The room became silent and all eyes turned to face her.
"For all the wrangling of this council throughout the long ages, the sword of Gryffindor has always chosen its own bearer. When we have opposed the will of the sword it has always been to our own sorrow. The sword has in fact chosen a new bearer. Ours is but to decide whether to accept the will of the sword or assert our own, more fallible, judgment."
"What are you holding out on us, Minerva?" Walpole demanded.
Mad Eye Mood laughed. "I think I know. I don't doubt that he would take up the burden, but would the people follow him?"
"I don't know, Alastair," answered Professor McGonagall, "but Albus believed that they would."
"Merlin's ale-soaked beard!" roared Walpole "Would you please tell us whom you're speaking of?"
"Harry Potter," Professor McGonagall answered flatly.
Once again the room rumbled with the sound of voices, and this time no amount of voice clearing would silence it. When at last the din died down of its own accord, Professor McGonagall continued. "You all know the story of his childhood. Besides that, both the sword and the phoenix have chosen him, and bearing the sword he challenged and defeated Salazar Slytherin's own Basilisk. What clearer sign is needed?"
"He's only a child, not even fully trained as a wizard."
"He is unruly and uncontrollable."
"How can one of his age be ready for such a burden?"
"Are you seriously asking us to put the fate of England, and perhaps the world into the hands of a mere lad?"
The objections continued, but strangely enough Old Walpole remained silent.
When the room had had quieted enough that she could be heard again, Professor McGonagall once again spoke. "There is no denying that Mr. Potter is young, and like many in their youth, he is reckless. He is courageous though, and never, no matter how reckless, has he ever turned away from responsibility. As the head of his house, I must admit that he has a certain disregard for the letter of the law, but never has he violated its spirit or its intent. In his four and a half years at Hogwarts, he has consistently risked his own safety for the well-being of his friends and fellow students."
An old wizard in the back, Miles Grimsby, spoke. "I won't argue young Potter's bravery. This council is well aware of his past exploits. However, questions still remain. Can we be sure that the power we entrust to him will not be turned against us? Can he lead and will people follow one so young? Can he put aside his own bravery, or the lives of his friends, for the greater good?"
Alastair Moody once again rose to his feet. "I've trained a lot of Aurors in my time and I've met young Harry. He is his father's son in every way. He would sooner die before he would yield to the Dark One. I can't speak for the rest of England, but if it comes to it, I'll follow him."
"There is still the matter of his training," Grimsby objected.
"Training can be arranged," Moody countered, "It's the heart that matters most, and Harry Potter has heart."
Walpole raised himself to his feet, which was a rare enough occurrence to silence what discussion remained in the room. "I have never been one to accept the word of Albus simply on faith," he started. A slight chuckle arose from this. "But no matter how often I may have protested to the contrary, Albus Dumbledore was no fool, and in this matter least of all. If Albus had one talent in life, it was that he could see the hearts of men, no matter what tale their exterior might tell. Harry Potter maybe young and he may be reckless, but I believe that he is the one to lead our fight, and that the Wizardry of England will follow him. Harry Potter is a symbol and has been his whole life -He is 'The Boy Who Lived'. There is not a single Wizard or Witch in England that does not know his name, from the Dark Lord himself down to the youngest Squib of a toddler. If Mr. Potter, boy or man, takes up the sword and calls, the people will follow. The sword has chosen him, the Phoenix has chosen him, Dumbledore chose him, Alastair Moody supports him, and for what its worth, so do I."
There was a moment of quiet murmuring. Professor McGonagall resumed the floor, determined not to lose momentum. "Let's vote then." The process of voting took but a few moments and the results were clear.
"Well then," rumbled Walpole, "Summon Mr. Potter."
Let not mercy and truth forsake you; tie them around your neck; write them upon the tablet of your heart
Proverbs 3:3 (MKJV)
Prelude - The Legacy of Albus Dumbledore
Crucio!
Draco staggered as the force of the spell hit him. Tendrils of pain wrapped themselves around his muscles, sank their teeth into his tendons and began gnawing at his bones. He fought the pain as long as he could, but soon found himself prostrate on the ground as unbelievable agony enveloped his body and pulsated through every cell of his body.
Even when the pain ceased to renew itself, and Draco knew that the spell had ended, the lingering march of stiletto heeled hippogriffs through his anatomy remained. He gasped for air, and clawed at the soft earth beneath him. Despite hoods and masks, the imposing figure of Lucius Malfoy, his father, was easily identifiable. Pale gray eyes pierced both the darkness of shadow and the lingering haze of pain, blazing contempt towards anything that might writhe on the ground in such a manner, especially if that thing happened to be his own son.
"Do you accept your place as my servant and swear the obedience to me that is rightfully mine?"
Draco tried to speak, but found his voice to be simply a hoarse croak. He must have screamed more than he had been aware. He had seen others under the effect of the cruciatus, and had thought them weak and pathetic. Not that he'd ever had any intentions of experiencing such a thing, but he had been sure, that if he were ever the target, it would be different, that he was stronger, more resistant. He was no longer able to maintain that illusion.
"Answer me, Worm! Or do you wish to learn the consequences of disobedience already?"
"Y-Yes, My Lord. I will obey. I swear it with my life." Speaking required energy Draco didn't think he had, but some how he managed.
"You can not bargain with what is already mine, Worm. The sooner you realize that, the better. You have however, answered well. Stand and receive my mark."
Slowly, Draco pulled himself to his feet where he wavered unsteadily. "Yes, My Lord" he murmured as he bared his arm and extended it. In a flash, the dark figure before him produced a dagger and sliced a six-inch wound along the length of Draco's fore arm. Blood immediately welled forward and began dripping to the ground, forming small puddles that glistened in the flickering firelight. Roughly the figure brought the wound to his mouth and began to drink the blood. Pouring from Draco's artery.
"You have nothing that is not mine, and do not think for a second that I will not cease your pitiful existence should the whim strike me. You are mine."
On a cue unnoticed by Draco as his surrounding spun uneasily around him, another hooded figure stepped forward with a white-hot piece of metal. The speaker took the glowing brand and mashed it into Draco's open wound. Draco collapsed under the fresh assault of pain. It was not the cruciatus, it was far to localized for that. But where the all-encompassing pain of the unforgivable curse quickly forced one into a detached consciousness, this new assault left him aware enough to experience every agonizing second.
He was released, and gravity pulled him gracelessly to the ground. Unable to move, and with the smell of his own burnt flesh strong in his nostrils, Draco gave up all pretense of pride and let the darkness envelop him. He had taken the first step towards his destiny tonight. He was a Death Eater.
Stars flickered overhead, blinking at Draco as he could not blink in return. The ceremony was over and the crowd of Death Eaters began to disperse. Draco's field of view remained fixed - even the energy required to move his eyes remained at arm's length. Shadows fleeted and evaporated around the periphery of his vision, until only one remained. One shadow, with that same wilting glare that had haunted him since childhood remained. The gaze flickered then doused itself, then that shadow too, like all the others faded away.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ronald Weasley stepped uneasily off of the rickety contraption know as the Knight Bus. No sooner had his feet touched the ground, than the noisy vehicle lurched forward and apparated towards its next destination with a loud bang. A whooshing of air filled the space where it had once been.
Ron took a deep breath to steel his resolve, ran his hand over his head to smooth his surprisingly slicked down hair, and made a gesture at straightening out the unfamiliar Muggle clothing he wore. Satisfied he could do no more, he stepped off of the coarse gray pavement of the street onto the neat brick sidewalk before him, and up the walkway to the house before him. Taking another anxious breath, he knocked on the door.
Seconds later, a handsomely dressed woman answered. "May I help you?" she asked politely.
Ron's heart pounded savagely in his chest. "Yes, ma'am. I'm here to see Hermione," he answered as calmly as he could.
The woman smiled at him warmly. "You must be Ron then. I'm Hermione's mum. Please, come in."
Ron followed her through the finest house he had ever seen. The rooms were furnished in brightly polished antiques, surrounded by pastel walls, decorated by demure paintings, Ron was sure represented fine art. He began to second guess himself and wonder at the wisdom of his coming here.
"Hermione! You have a visitor!" The woman called out. Ron sat uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa he had been shown to.
A few seconds later, Hermione came bouncing down the stairs in a yellow print sundress, her hair following in a cloud behind her. Ron's face brightened visibly as the room filled with her presence.
"Ron, what are you doing here?" Hermione asked, but not nearly with the warmth with which Ron had hoped.
"Oh. You know, came to meet your mother.:
"Ron! You did no such thing!"
"I came to see you, of course. I wanted to ask you something." Ron tapered off.
"Did you decide to buckle down and start studying for your OWLS early? I'm impressed," Hermione smiled.
"The world does not revolve around OWLS, Hermione! Honestly, sometimes I don't know why I bother."
"Why do you bother, Ron?"
"Because.. I care about you, Hermione."
Hermione's expression softened. "I care about you too, Ron. So what did you come to ask?"
Ron inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. "I came to ask you not to go to Bulgaria."
Hermione frowned, "And why shouldn't I?"
"Viktor, he's all wrong for you. He goes to a school most famous for producing dark wizards. He."
"And you don't think I am capable of making a wise decision on my own? You think I need your help?" Hermione's voice was raised, her face flushed, and as if responding to her anger, her hair seemed to become even bushier.
Ron deflated, and his eyes turned towards the floor. "No," he answered, "it's not that."
"Well, what is it then?" Hermione demanded.
Ron's face reddened. "I.like you, Hermione"
"And I like you too, Ron"
"I more than like you. I was hoping that you felt the same way and wouldn't go see Viktor because of that." Ron's face very nearly matched the color of his hair now.
Hermione smiled. "Ron, I won't go to Bulgaria"
"You won't?" Ron looked up and his expression transformed into a broad grin. "And the other."
Hermione smiled at him. "I feel that way about you too."
The mood became awkward. Each of them began to fidget unsure what to do next. Ron took a step closer and began to lean in. Hesitantly, Hermione did the same until their lips just began to touch. Lips on lips, they both began to relax a bit.
They broke away from the kiss with broad grins on their faces, staring into each other's eyes. Hermione started to giggle and Ron laughed in return. They made another attempt to kiss, but this only made them laugh harder.
"Ok, that's enough," Hermione spat out, trying desperately to keep a straight face.
Ron nodded in agreement, but kept the silly grin plastered across his face. "So you'll be my girlfriend?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes, but." she said with her expression turning serious.
Ron's expression quickly followed suit. "But?" he asked.
"It's kind of hard to explain really," Hermione answered, pulling her fingers back through her hair. "I don't want to be just a girlfriend. I. we. have important things to do in our life. Since we became friends, I've never been able to imagine the future without you in it. You, Harry, and I have big things ahead of us. I want to make a mark on the world, but I want to do it as Hermione, not as Ron's girlfriend."
"Hermione," Ron said softly, eyes wide with sincerity. "How can you think that would ever be possible? You are the smartest witch who ever lived. I'm much more likely to go through life as 'Hermione's boyfriend' than you are as 'Ron's girlfriend'. I do understand how you feel though. I have similar feelings myself."
"About me?" asked Hermione, taken aback.
"No, never about you," Ron answered. "I've always been 'another one of those Weasleys'. I want to be someone in my own right, be known for something I've done as an individual. Being friends with you and Harry has been great in some ways, but in others, it has just made things worse. Now, when I'm not a Weasley, I'm Harry's sidekick. Harry is my friend, but I don't want to live my whole life in his shadow."
Hermione looked at him sympathetically. "You're more than that, Ron," she whispered. "Together, we'll make sure of that. With my brains and your spirit, we can do anything together."
"Don't forget the good looks," Ron grinned. "I am blessed that way."
"Really, Ron," Hermione replied indignantly, her hair bristling again. "Sometimes you are just too much."
"It is a burden to have this much charm and good looks you know," Ron said smugly. "You should be relieved that you don't have to deal with it."
"So you're implying that I'm neither good looking nor charming?" Hermione asked with a raised eyebrow and an expression quickly approaching anger.
"Of course not," answered Ron with a crooked grin. "You can be very charming."
Hermione drew back and slapped at him. Ron deflected her blow easily. "You're so full of yourself, Ronald Weasley. Someday, someone is going to knock you down a peg and wipe that silly grin off of your face."
Ron's smile only grew. "It won't be you though," he said defiantly. Hermione swung with her other hand and again, Ron easily deflected it. "Did I ever tell you," he asked, "that you're stunning when you're angry?"
"You're a git, you know," Hermione's face flickered with anger. Ron winked at her in reply. Hermione moved closer until their lips touched once again. Arms wrapped themselves in knots, clinging tightly as hands ran through hair and caressed tender, back-of-neck skin. Eyes closed and the world of sight and sound vanished and was replaced by one of tactile sensation and the simple overwhelming need to be as close as possible.
"Hermione Granger! What are you doing?"
As if doused by ice water, they both turned around in shock. Mrs. Granger stood in the doorway holding a tray with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. Her expression was one of total disbelief.
Mortified, Ron stuttered and stammered. "I think I had better be going."
"Yes," Mrs. Granger nodded emphatically, "I think you should."
Ron made straight for the door, only turning around once. "I'll owl you, Hermione"
Hermione smiled at him. "Good bye, Ron. I'll owl you too."
Quietly Ron closed the door and was gone.
************************************************************************
Harry stepped out of the Burrow and into open night air. The night was alive with sounds - frogs and crickets laid down a two-part rhythm while owls hooted softly and nigh insects buzzed in counterpoint all topped off by the intermittent rustle of leaves in the gentle summer breeze. There was one final piece to the nocturnal symphony though, the one that had driven Harry outside in the first place - A harsh staccato "Harry!" first in a male voice, then in a female voice.
Ignoring the call of his name, Harry slipped into a small hollow in the hedgerow that separated what was Weasley in the world from what was not. He had discovered it one day while de-gnoming the garden and claimed it as his own. At the time, he had thought of it warmly, that in this of all places, he was at home enough to have a little spot for himself. Now however, that he was using it as a refuge from his friends, it brought him little comfort.
Leaves and small branches embraced him as he settled down to make himself comfortable. As much as anyplace else, the Burrow was home. He could almost feel himself drawing strength from the ground he sat on and from the air he breathed. It wasn't fair that 'they' had to make things miserable for him. Staring at the night sky through a green filter, he allowed himself to relax and his mind to wander, unfocussed, across the landscape of his life.
He felt restless and discontent, unable to maintain focus. The comfort he'd sought to find here had eluded him. His friends were busy discovering new facets to each other. It was understandable of course, and in the same circumstances he was sure that he would be doing the same. This was a dangerous train of thought, not a path he wanted to tread, but the lure was too strong for him to ignore.
Those were circumstances he just couldn't allow. Maybe someday, but not now, no matter how much he wanted it. To be Harry Potter was to be alone, it seemed, and maybe it was better that way. People died around him, bad things happened to them.it was probably best for all parties concerned. He'd seen Cho at Cedric's funeral, and he could imagine how Ron or Hermione might react if one lost the other. He could not imagine though how he might react if he were to lose someone so close. To whom would he turn then? Loneliness was just something he would have to learn to cope with.
Why couldn't he have a normal life? Not Dursley normalcy, obviously - he had no desire to give up wizardry. He wanted to have a real life though: to have parents and a family of his own, to have friends without worrying that his presence might shorten their life span, to be able to look forward to a future that didn't include the certainty of his own untimely death.
Some time later, he could tell because the moon had risen and begun to arc its way across the sky, there was a new strain added to the nocturnal music, a soft and delicate sotto voce to offset the atonality that caused him to flee.
"Harry?"
Harry remained silent, unwilling to give up his tranquility.
"I know you're out here. I saw you leave. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."
"I'm fine," Harry answered. "I just needed a bit of quiet and fresh air - to clear my mind."
"And no wonder with the racket those two are making."
Harry turned so that he could see the speaker. It was Ginny of course, who else would come to see where he'd gone off to? She was standing there near the door, in her summer dress, and with a sweater thrown over her shoulders. The silvery light of the moon reflected from her hair, and seemed to simply hover around her outline in an ethereal glow. It was an otherworldly sight, one that momentarily took his breath away.
"I'll leave you alone, then" Ginny said and turned towards the door.
"Wait. Don't go." Harry said, almost instantly wondering why he'd done so.
Ginny turned without question, and took a seat beneath the tree, using its trunk as a backrest. Harry studied her closely from his hiding place. There, in the shadows, the moonlight was gone and it was the same Ginny he'd known for four years, but still he studied as if seeing her for the first time. She didn't have the austere beauty of Cho Chang, but there was something about her, something in the eyes and something else - a flame that seemed to radiate outward. Once aware of it, he could feel its warmth, and wondered why he'd never noticed it before.
The door rattled open, and a shock of red hair emerged. "Ginny," it demanded, "have you seen Harry?"
Harry cringed but Ginny spoke up before he could even decide what to do. "No, I haven't seen him - at least not out here. Have you looked upstairs?"
"Where could he be hiding?" Ron wondered aloud. "I swear, living with those Muggles has rattled his brain." The door slammed shut and they were alone again.
"Thanks, Ginny," Harry said softly "You didn't have to lie for me though"
"I didn't lie," Ginny answered with a smile, "I haven't actually seen you. You're there in the bushes and for all I know, you might be using ventriloquism."
Harry couldn't help but smile to himself. Something in her eyes, he thought to himself, they can see me even when I am hidden.
"Can I ask you a question, Harry?"
"Sure," Harry replied.
"Are you jealous? Of Ron and Hermione, I mean."
"No," Harry answered emphatically, but then paused to think about his answer. "Yes. No. Not really. I miss my friends, I miss it being the three of us instead of those two and then me. I miss being able to talk to them instead everything being an argument, or a power play with me caught in the middle. I am glad that they are happy - if they are happy, but I need my friends. I've come to depend on them more than I realized, and without them I'm simply alone."
"No, Harry" Ginny said, shaking her head, "You are never alone."
The words and the way that Ginny said them hit Harry like a weight. The unidentifiable something began to resolve itself. Harry contemplated the implications but remained unsure of what to do about it. He had an idea of what he was supposed to do, he had seen enough Muggle movies to recognize such a moment, but unsure of his own feelings, such actions seemed false.
A storm raged with in his chest. This thing that he wanted so badly - he didn't even really know what it was, but he knew that it was what Ginny was offering him. He had denied himself even the idea of it for so long, not even allowing himself to think about it, that he no longer knew even how to accept it once it was freely offered.
When he was completely honest with himself, he didn't know if he was capable of this, or even if he should allow it. The image of Cedric's cold and lifeless body came unbidden to his mind, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes, reminding him of the consequences one faced being anywhere near him. What if Ginny were to suffer the same fate? How would he live with himself if that were to happen?
There was another side to the argument though. There were no graphic images to promote it, only a small voice that asked hard questions. Would he live the rest of his life in fear? Would he allow the possibility of tragedy, a possibility that everyone faced, regardless of who they were, force him into solitude for the rest of his life?
There were no clear paths on the road of life, but one had to walk them just the same. He didn't know which was the right one, but he was never one to give in to fear. There were a lot of unknowns, but he knew that he didn't want to simply push Ginny away. He would make his own way. He stood up, emerging from his hiding place. Leaves decorated his shoulders like confetti.
"I don't know what to say, Ginny," he said taking a new seat near, but facing her.
"You don't have to say anything," Ginny answered. "I know where I stand. on the outside that is. but my heart doesn't care about that. I don't know what I am to you - just Ron's little sister perhaps, or maybe just another silly girl with a silly crush, but to me this is real. I don't know what to do, or what I can do, but trust me Harry, as long as I am breathing, you will never, ever be alone."
"I wish that I could tell you I felt the same way," started Harry, "but I really don't know how I feel. I feel something, but I don't know what to call it. I'm honored, and flattered, and. something, but I need to take the time to figure out what that is. I don't think you're silly though."
Ginny's nodded thoughtfully, not really sure of her own feelings at the moment. "Take all of the time you need."
"I can promise you one thing," Harry said. "You won't be on the outside anymore. At the very least we can be friends."
Ginny smiled. "At the very least," she added.
************************************************************************
"Albus," Professor McGonagall exclaimed, "You know that this is a trap, how can you simply play into his hands this way?"
"Because it is what I must do, Minerva," Professor Dumbledore answered quietly. "Life is but a stage and we are merely players. Each of us must play our part, some short and some long. Mine has been longer than most and it is not yet over. Divination aside, the future is not written until it becomes the past and even then all is not necessarily as it seems."
"Nice metaphor, but I rather doubt that the prowess of You-Know-Who extends to Muggle literature. Words do not change the reality of the situation we now face."
"Never underestimate the power of the metaphor, dear friend. The time has come that I must depart. Remember what you must do. The others will not be so easily persuaded, but you must prevail."
"I give you my word, Albus."
"Goodbye, Minerva. I will miss you."
"Goodbye, Albus" Professor Dumbledore did not hear her though, and the space where he had stood only seconds before was now filled by empty air.
Professor Dumbledore stepped cautiously though crumbling stone pillars, past fallen buttresses towards the inner keep of an ancient castle. The air was filled with the tang of salt, the crash of surf, and the roar of wind blowing in from the Irish Sea. The old wizard moved deliberately towards massive oaken doors, amazingly intact given their surroundings. With a casual flick of his wand, the doors opened and he stepped inside.
Inside was a relative term. The interior of the keep was in no better shape than the exterior. The Western Wall had collapsed to give what might have been a splendid view under other conditions. As the professor made his way though the debris, shadows moved around the periphery of his vision. Heedless, Dumbledore continued until he reached the fallen outer wall and looked out over the sea below him.
"I didn't bring you here to admire the view, old man" said a voice, dry and harsh, like scales across gravel.
"You are late, Tom," Dumbledore answered without turning to face the speaker. "I remember you as always being the prompt one. Perhaps the years in the void have dulled your sense of propriety. Besides, when one is as old as I am, one learns that such sights are not to be taken for granted."
"Propriety." spat Lord Voldemort, "You speak of such things, and then use that filthy Muggle name. You are no longer my professor, and even if you were, it wouldn't change the fact that you are a silly, old fool. You were when I was your student, and you are more the fool for all the years that have passed. The years have brought you senility while they have brought me strength and power. Your time is done, and mine is now."
At last Dumbledore turned to face his former student. From out of the night sky, a very aged Phoenix arrived and landed on his shoulder. Lord Voldemort laughed.
"Time has addled you," the Dark Lord laughed. "I really did expect some trickery from you, some sort of reinforcements, but a bird?"
"A Phoenix," Dumbledore answered.
"I can see that it's a Phoenix," hissed Voldemort. "A very tired and ancient Phoenix. as tired and old as you," he added with a sneer.
Dumbledore brought the bird down to perch on his wrist. "You would be wise not to underestimate the power of the Phoenix, Tom Riddle. To do so might very easily be your undoing."
Voldemort looked at his old professor with an incredulous expression, then at the feathered creature the same way. As if his gaze held a power all its own, the phoenix immediately burst into flames. In mere seconds, the magical bird existed only as a pile of ashes on the old stone floor.
Once again, Voldemort laughed. "You silly, old, pathetic, git! You're barely worth the magic it will require to kill you."
Albus Dumbledore's face remained devoid of all expression, and he made no response.
"Avada Kedavra!" Lord Voldemort shouted, and a bolt of sickly green energy leapt from his wand. Professor Dumbledore's body fell to the ground lifeless and bearing the same void expression.
Voldemort's face held a look of contempt. "How disappointing," he drawled. "I was at least hoping for a struggle, maybe a bit of pleading." He spat at the corpse and turned to head towards the door. "Come, there is more work to be done."
From out of the shadows, a host of black-hooded figures emerged to follow their master into the darkness of night.
Long after their departure something stirred in the ruined keep. On the old stone floor, lay a pile of ashes, and from that small acrid mound emerged the beak of a newborn Phoenix
************************************************************************
The air rumbled with the sound of ancient voices. A full dozen of England's most powerful wizards voiced their opinions over the recent turn of events.
"How could Dumbledore have been such a fool?"
"I've never been one to question the Albus' wisdom," grumbled the oldest of those present. "but he has left us in a terrible position. The Dark Lord grows stronger by the minute, and now we are without both a leader and the strongest of our number. Albus Dumbledore was more than just a powerful wizard, he was a symbol. Three generations of Wizards have slept more soundly at night knowing that he was there to defend them. The magic he wielded might possibly be compensated for by numbers, but without a uniting symbol, those numbers are never going to appear."
Professor McGonagall stood and cleared her throat. Somewhat to her surprise, the room quieted. "No one here was closer to Albus than I, and no one feels his loss more keenly. I cannot claim to know exactly what he was thinking when he voluntarily walked to his own doom, but I do know that he didn't do so lightly, and neither did he do so without taking the issues you have raised into account."
"He would have done well to have shared with the rest of us." The old one mumbled. "You-Know-Who will not let this time of weakness pass un- exploited."
"You make it sound as if we are completely defenseless, Walpole" spoke a new voice. "The Auror Corps has redoubled its efforts and stands constantly vigilant. When the Dark Lord moves, we will be there to meet him."
"No one is questioning the dedication of the Aurors, Mr. Moody but how many fully trained Aurors do you have? A few hundred at best, and of those, how many of them can you be absolutely assured of their loyalty? How many Aurors changed sides during You-Know-Who's last rise to power?"
"Now see here!" Mad Eye Moody roared. "My Aurors are out there every day putting there lives on the line, and I will not stand for you calling their loyalty into question."
"It's not a matter of loyalty, Moody," another old wizard voiced.
"That's right," resumed Walpole, "It's a matter of numbers. If the forces of darkness increase in numbers, then the forces of light must do the same or perish. To rally the good witches and wizards of England together requires a leader. The sword of Gryffindor must be unsheathed, but by whose hand?"
Professor McGonagall, who had remained standing through this exchange, once again cleared her voice. "There is one," she said quietly. The room became silent and all eyes turned to face her.
"For all the wrangling of this council throughout the long ages, the sword of Gryffindor has always chosen its own bearer. When we have opposed the will of the sword it has always been to our own sorrow. The sword has in fact chosen a new bearer. Ours is but to decide whether to accept the will of the sword or assert our own, more fallible, judgment."
"What are you holding out on us, Minerva?" Walpole demanded.
Mad Eye Mood laughed. "I think I know. I don't doubt that he would take up the burden, but would the people follow him?"
"I don't know, Alastair," answered Professor McGonagall, "but Albus believed that they would."
"Merlin's ale-soaked beard!" roared Walpole "Would you please tell us whom you're speaking of?"
"Harry Potter," Professor McGonagall answered flatly.
Once again the room rumbled with the sound of voices, and this time no amount of voice clearing would silence it. When at last the din died down of its own accord, Professor McGonagall continued. "You all know the story of his childhood. Besides that, both the sword and the phoenix have chosen him, and bearing the sword he challenged and defeated Salazar Slytherin's own Basilisk. What clearer sign is needed?"
"He's only a child, not even fully trained as a wizard."
"He is unruly and uncontrollable."
"How can one of his age be ready for such a burden?"
"Are you seriously asking us to put the fate of England, and perhaps the world into the hands of a mere lad?"
The objections continued, but strangely enough Old Walpole remained silent.
When the room had had quieted enough that she could be heard again, Professor McGonagall once again spoke. "There is no denying that Mr. Potter is young, and like many in their youth, he is reckless. He is courageous though, and never, no matter how reckless, has he ever turned away from responsibility. As the head of his house, I must admit that he has a certain disregard for the letter of the law, but never has he violated its spirit or its intent. In his four and a half years at Hogwarts, he has consistently risked his own safety for the well-being of his friends and fellow students."
An old wizard in the back, Miles Grimsby, spoke. "I won't argue young Potter's bravery. This council is well aware of his past exploits. However, questions still remain. Can we be sure that the power we entrust to him will not be turned against us? Can he lead and will people follow one so young? Can he put aside his own bravery, or the lives of his friends, for the greater good?"
Alastair Moody once again rose to his feet. "I've trained a lot of Aurors in my time and I've met young Harry. He is his father's son in every way. He would sooner die before he would yield to the Dark One. I can't speak for the rest of England, but if it comes to it, I'll follow him."
"There is still the matter of his training," Grimsby objected.
"Training can be arranged," Moody countered, "It's the heart that matters most, and Harry Potter has heart."
Walpole raised himself to his feet, which was a rare enough occurrence to silence what discussion remained in the room. "I have never been one to accept the word of Albus simply on faith," he started. A slight chuckle arose from this. "But no matter how often I may have protested to the contrary, Albus Dumbledore was no fool, and in this matter least of all. If Albus had one talent in life, it was that he could see the hearts of men, no matter what tale their exterior might tell. Harry Potter maybe young and he may be reckless, but I believe that he is the one to lead our fight, and that the Wizardry of England will follow him. Harry Potter is a symbol and has been his whole life -He is 'The Boy Who Lived'. There is not a single Wizard or Witch in England that does not know his name, from the Dark Lord himself down to the youngest Squib of a toddler. If Mr. Potter, boy or man, takes up the sword and calls, the people will follow. The sword has chosen him, the Phoenix has chosen him, Dumbledore chose him, Alastair Moody supports him, and for what its worth, so do I."
There was a moment of quiet murmuring. Professor McGonagall resumed the floor, determined not to lose momentum. "Let's vote then." The process of voting took but a few moments and the results were clear.
"Well then," rumbled Walpole, "Summon Mr. Potter."
