The Death of Dumbledore

by Joanna Sherlyn

If you are a fan of the books and were were frustrated with Michael Gambon's performance in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire or for that matter, Azkaban this is for you...or rather, us. Here I compare many events in the film to events in The Half Blood

(This is LONG. Please bear with me. I hope that when all is said and done, that you can see my point of view. I'd love to hear yours as well. Just know that my character is a round one, and my feelings at one point in the story do not necessarily reflect my feelings the whole way through. It's a good idea to read this with a metaphorical mind. Much of the text is copied from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. All of that belongs to JK Rowling. The rest of it is my opinion, from beginning to end. It would be unwise to read this unless you have both read the Half-Blood Prince and seen The Goblet of Fire film.)

Part I

Our eyes met over the basin, reflecting a movie screen, each pale face lit with that strange, green light. I did not speak. Was this why I had been invited along -- so that I could force-feed Dumbledore a potion that might cause him unendurable pain?
"You remember," said Dumbledore, "the condition on which I brought you with me?"
I hesitated, looking into the blue eyes that had turned green in the reflected light of the basin.
"But what if -- ?"
"You swore, did you not, to follow any command I gave you?"
"Yes, but -- "
"I warned you, did I not, that there might be danger?"
"Yes," I said, "but -- "
"Well, then," said Dumbledore, shaking back his sleeves once more and raising the empty goblet, "you have my orders."
Before I could make any further protest, Dumbledore lowered the crystal goblet into the potion, and the film began. Dumbledore lifted the goblet to his mouth.
"To your good health, Joanna."
Instantly, I remembered from the previous film, "Did what? Good night..." and a wary grin split my face slightly.
And he drained the goblet. I watched, terrified, hands gripping the armrests of the movie-theatre seats so hard that my fingertips were numb.
"Professor?" I said anxiously, as Dumbledore lowered the empty glass. "How do you feel?"
Dumbledore shook his head, his eyes closed. I wondered whether he was in pain. Dumbledore plunged the glass blindly back into the basin, refilled it, and drank once more.
In silence, Dumbledore drank three gobletsful of potion as I watched a speech about the Goblet of Fire given out-of character. By the time the white-bearded man on screen shouted "SILENCE" with anger, rather than subtle force, Dumbledore was halfway through the fourth goblet. He staggered and fell forward against the basin. His eyes were still closed, his breathing heavy.
"Professor Dumbledore?" I said, my voice echoing around the cavern.
The bearded man on screen spoke in a voice I did not recognize. Dumbledore panted and too spoke in a voice I did not recognize, only it was in a different way, for I had never heard Dumbledore frightened like this.
"I don't want...Don't make me..."
On screen I saw the man, in a tone so unlike Professor Dumbledore, shout "HARRY POTTER!"
I stared into the whitened face I knew so well. Even if it weren't so pale, if it were strong, as it normally was, I could recognize that it was not the same face of the man on the screen. I did not know what to do.
"...don't like...want to stop..."
The man on screen shoved the burnt paper into Harry's hands. The look in the man's eyes reminded me of that of an immature schoolboy who had just gotten hurt by a friend: a look of pure disgust. Dumbledore, could he have been there, were he healthy, would have given Harry the paper so gently that Harry would have been scared by his gesture of kindness in such a tense moment. Dumbledore's eyes would have been so soft under his raised eyebrows, and the corners of his mouth would have risen ever-so slightly, that Harry would have been disciplined by that look that most people would think to be mis-placed for such a situation. That, however, was always Albus Dumbledore's genius. But Dumbledore wasn't on the screen with Harry. Dumbledore was trembling beside a poisonous potion-filled basin. And with every drink, I could see less and less of the man I loved on the screen. But, I knew the film must continue, for not all on the screen was to be torture. There was much good to see, and in order to get to that good, I knew I had to keep watching my beloved professor endure more pain.
"You...you can't stop, Professor," I said. "You've got to keep drinking, remember? You told me you had to keep drinking. Here..."
Hating myself, repulsed by what I was doing, I forced my eyes back to the screen, forced the goblet back down toward Dumbledore's mouth and tipped it, so that Dumbledore drank the remainder of the potion inside.
"No..." he groaned, as I lowered the goblet back into the basin and refilled it for him. I disciplined myself to watch the imposter on screen.
"I don't want to...I don't want to...Let me go..."
"It's all right," I said. I didn't know who I was trying to convince more: the professor or myself.
"Make it stop, make it stop," moaned Dumbledore.
Oh yes, God. Make it stop.
Dumbledore screamed; the noise echoed all around the vast chamber, across the dead black theatre.
"No, no, no, no, I can't, I can't, don't make me, I don't want to..."
"It's all right, Professor, it's all right!" I said loudly, my hands shaking so badly I could hardly scoop up the sixth gobletful of potion; the basin was now half empty. "Nothing's happening to you, you're safe, it isn't real, it's just a movie, I swear it isn't real -- take this now, take this..."
And obediently, Dumbledore drank, as though is was an antidote I offered him, but upon draining the goblet, he sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably. His flailing almost knocked over the refilled goblet from my trembling hands as he moaned, "Don't hurt them, don't hurt them."
In the film, Harry had walked in the back room, with the champions. There was a commotion from outside the room. I could see the man walking furiously toward Harry...
"Please, please," Dumbledore continued, "it's my fault, hurt me instead..."
Tears that were long-since welling were now flowing freely down my cheeks. Even in this time of torture and pain, Dumbledore wished no ill will against the man who was butchering everything the professor stood for. And here I sat, being bitter about the whole mess. Could I not feel compassion for the man on screen, who was doing his best, as Dumbledore was?
The man on screen was closer to Harry now, flying down the stairs. Karkaroff, Crouch, and Maxime were behind him. The man I knew to be Crouch Jr. was also there, disguised with Polyjuice potion.
"No more, please, no more."

I scooped up another gobletful of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin.

The man grew ever closer now. I could hear his voice like an echo in my mind. Dumbledore began to scream in more anguish than ever, "I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!"

Simultaneously with the man's angry shout of "DID YOU PUT YOUR NAME INTO THE GOBLET OF FIRE?" Dumbledore yelled, "KILL ME!"

"This – this one will!" I gasped. "Just drink this….It'll be all over….all over!"

Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, and drained every last drop. I saw the man on screen shake Harry so vigorously, that it couldn't possibly be Dumbledore doing it. It had to be someone else. I tried to convince myself that there were two people in that room drinking Polyjuice potion, not just one. Nothing that violent, nothing that brash could have come from the real Albus Dumbledore. It just wasn't possible. The agony that had been building in my stomach finally released as I witnessed these two, horrible, inter-connected events: Professor Dumbledore dying on screen, and Professor Dumbledore dying in front of my very eyes. With a great, rattling gasp, he rolled over onto his face.

Part 2

(Like I said before, all of you who read the book know what happened to get to this next point. If you haven't read the book, then for God's sake! Why are you still reading?)

I can't begin to tell you how difficult it was, watching these next events unfold, frozen, unable to move. Forced to sit in my seat covered in the invisibility cloak. Dumbledore was being confronted by Malfoy now. Although he still spoke with the strength of a thousand phoenixes, it was easy for anyone to tell that Dumbledore had grown significantly weaker. That potion had robbed him of something. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on until I forced my attention back onto the screen.

The film was astounding. I was amazed beyond measure! Sure, they had to cut some important stuff, but the main story was still there. I was particularly impressed with all of the little character pieces in this film that the previous films did not have. As far as the characters went, this movie was far closer to the spirit of the books than the others were. Neville getting his moment of glory, Filch being both funny and weird at the same time, Snape pushing up his sleeves and pushing down the heads of Harry and Ron, Hagrid and Maxime having a bit of romance, Rita Skeeter being brilliantly-acid. The Weasley twins' many hilarities. I was incredibly pleased. It was like watching Dumbledore show manners to the female Death Eater, Alecto, even in his weakened state. It was like telling Draco to have no more pretense about killing him because if he was going to do it, he would have done it by now, and there would have been less talk about ways and means.

Yet the man on screen, the man who was supposed to be Albus Dumbledore was far from the spirit of the books. When Professor Dumbledore had drunk all of the potion, it left him weak, and the twinkle left the eyes of the one on screen. Now all that was left on the face of the bearded man on film was a scowl worthy of Professor Snape. This man would not have shown manners to Alecto. He most likely would have yelled at her, lowering himself to her Death Eater level. Where Albus Dumbledore was now physically weak, his character was still strong, and uncompromised. Yet the man on screen displayed the exact opposite for the majority of the film. Watching this man reminded me that although Dumbledore conducted himself with strength, his strength to live was indeed failing fast.

Looking back now, I remember that Dumbledore would not want me to resent this man, this person I saw as an utter imposter. Dumbledore was wise enough to know that this man was doing what he must, and in the only way that he knew how. But then, as I observed this wretched scene, I did not understand. I did not think. I only knew hate for this man as the ramparts burst open and he stood there, wand clutched in his hand.

And somebody had spoken his name, quite softly.

"Michael…"

The sound frightened me beyond anything I had experienced that evening. For the first time, Dumbledore was pleading.

The man, Michael said nothing, but walked forward and pushed Malfoy roughly out of the way. Michael gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there was stubbornness and wretched determination etched in the harsh lines of his face.

"Michael...please…"

Michael Gambon raised his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A jet of green light shot from the end of Michael's wand and hit Dumbledore squarely in the chest. My feeling of agony then was far worse than the buckets of sobs I cried for Cedric and Amos that night, as I watched the man I so dearly loved get ruthlessly slaughtered and apathetically torn apart by an actor that many thought did a fine job. I was forced to watch as Dumbledore was blasted into the air. For a split second, he seemed to hang suspended beneath the shining skull, and then he fell slowly backward, like a great rag doll, over the battlements and out of sight.

Part 3

We were heading, as I saw when I stepped out onto the stone steps from the front doors, toward the lake. The warmth of the sun caressed my face as we followed Professor McGonagall in silence to the place where hundreds of chairs had been set out in rows. An aisle ran down the center of them: There was a marble table standing at the front, all chairs facing it. It was the most beautiful summer's day.

An extra-ordinary assortment of people had already settled into half of the chairs: all people who had read the books and loved Dumbledore. All those who grieved when he died at the end of the sixth book, and all those who grieved, as I did, while watching the fourth movie. Shabby, and smart, old and young. Most I did not recognize, but a few I did, including members of the Order of the Phoenix, and some of my closest friends and family members whom we all share the joy of the books with. There were children at the school that I worked at. I saw a couple that I knew with a young boy; their son. They had been so excited at the last Potter event, that one of them was jumping up and down – one of the adults, not the young boy. Now they carried themselves with such unfathomable solemnity. I saw some people who would never classify themselves as obsessed, they simply enjoyed the books. I saw token, card-carrying "Potterphiles" who would proudly wear Hogwarts memorabilia to school or work. I saw many members of the cast of the Harry Potter films. I saw Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, Emma Watson, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

My two best friends and I filed into the seats at the end of a row beside the lake.

Cornelius Fudge walked past toward the front rows, his expression miserable, twirling his green bowler hat as usual, Dolores Umbridge, an unconvincing expression of grief upon her toadlike face. The staff and crew were seated at last. I could see Scrimgeour looking grave and dignified in the front row with Professor McGonagall, Mike Newell, Alfonso Cuaron, and Chris Columbus.
I was unsure which side exactly everyone was supporting. Did they stand for the movies, or the books, or were they torn? But then, after I stopped to think about it, I remembered how Dumbledore had not wanted me to feel negatively toward anyone who had not portrayed things exactly as they were in the book, but to look at what it all meant deep down. And no matter what was compromised on the surface, I finally realized that it didn't matter "which side" anyone was supporting, just like it didn't matter if you supported Harry or Cedric. Because either way, you supported Hogwarts. Everyone here was supporting Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, with all his names, and all his facets.

And as I heard Michael Gambon utter a few words, "Never really cared for these curtains. Burned them down in my fourth year – by accident, of course," I swear I could see a twinkle in his eye and I suddenly remembered Dumbledore's idea of a few words, "nitwit," "oddment," "blubber," and "tweak," and again had to suppress a grin.

Then several people screamed. Bright, white flames had erupted around Dumbledore's body and the table upon which it lay: Higher and higher they rose, obscuring the body, White smoke spiraled into the air and made strange shapes: I thought, for one heart-stopping moment, that I saw a phoenix fly joyfully into the blue, but the next second, the fire had vanished. In its place was a white marble tomb, encasing Dumbledore's body and the table on which he had rested.