Harry woke after a fitful night of sleep to the feeling of his head being pecked repeatedly and without mercy.
"Off Hedwig," he groaned, shoving his friend off her temporary perch made by textbooks stacked next to his bed.
Swooping gracefully through the air, Hedwig barked and returned to her pecking.
"Fine," he huffed, and reached for his glasses. "Merry Christmas, Hedwig. Now get off." He swatted playfully at her again.
Climbing out of bed, he reached to the floor and picked up the first piece of clothing he could find. "Merry Christmas, mate!" Harry spun around, half-dressed, to see Ron standing in the doorway beaming from ear-to-ear.
"Merry Christmas," Harry returned with his own smile, though it flickered on his lips at the memory of last night. When Ron had finally come upstairs late into the evening, he pretended to have already fallen asleep, despite not being able to find a moments rest.
Ron lifted his arm showing a bundle of clothing held in his hand. "Mum wanted me to bring up the sweaters." He tossed one across the room to Harry who caught it.
"You first," Harry said, pointing to the maroon colored jumper in his friend's hand.
Making a face, Ron unfurled his jumper and flipped it around to reveal a golden Gryffindor lion proudly spread across the front with a keepers Quidditch cap fit sitting snugly around its head. His frown stretched in to a look of surprise, and then a pleased grin. "And you?"
Ripping open the paper wrapping, Harry was met with the familiar emerald green color Mrs. Weasley loved to use for him. Depicted firmly across its chest, all in white, were a wand and broom crossed over one another. In the four spaces surrounding the interlocked images were a stag, dog, wolf, and lily.
Biting his lip tightly, he looked up at his friend, whose eyes gazed back softly in understanding. "Sirius once told Mum about the Marauders when she asked about how he became an animagus," he explained. "She's been a little sentimental as of late, so…"
"Is your mum downstairs?" Harry asked.
"Yeah, just getting breakfast ready for when we all come down to open presents."
Harry nodded, before pulling the jumper over top the wrinkled shirt he had picked up from the floor. Together, him and Ron gathered up their gifts (some wrapped better than others) and made their way downstairs.
"Oh, Ron—and Harry, you as well! I hope you slept in fine. Go put the presents under the—"
For once, it was Harry cutting off Mrs. Weasley with a rare embrace. "Thank you," he choked emotionally. "It's perfect."
"I'm glad you liked it, dear." Mrs. Weasley's eyes shone as she patted his cheek tenderly.
"What!? No presents for me?"
Harry spun around to see Charlie peering under the tree, wearing an intensely orange sweater decorated with a large dragon. His face was scrunched into a look of fake outrage.
"We didn't know you were coming home, you dolt. Besides, you didn't get any for us," Ginny pointed out from where she was curled up comfortably in the warmth next to the fireplace.
"We got you something, Charlie," Fred said in a too-sweet voice as he came down the stairs. He wore a sweater with a large 'G' on the front. George followed close behind, wearing a matching jumper with an 'F'. pulled out a present that looked nothing if not suspicious.
"Is it safe?" he asked his brothers cautiously.
"Would we ever give you something unsafe?" said George with toothy smile.
"Does a Horntail makes a good dancing partner?" Charlie guffawed.
"From what I've heard they do. That is, if you're Harry on a Firebolt in the sky." This time it was Bill who spoke up, entering the room with Fleur at his side.
Harry's eyes unconsciously sought out Fleur's. She looked perfectly rested, and as at ease as she had last night at dinner. Not a hair was out of place or line of worry could be found on her face. Her gaze kept clear from him, and he felt his stomach twist horribly.
With everyone present and gathered around the tree, the opening of the gifts began. Much of it was the usual fare, with bits of clothing and books and sweets being exchanged. However, to the gasps and dazzled eyes of those around the room, Bill pulled out a beautiful silver chain and hung it around Fleur's neck, a crystal dragons tooth in the shape of his own matching earing nestled against the pale skin of her chest.
The twins had bought a number of gag gifts, and passed out different Christmas themed products from their shop. Perhaps the most impressive gift of theirs, were a set of eye-catching gold earrings and a brand new witches hat for Mrs. Weasley.
Arthur received countless muggle bits and bobs, which looked as though they'd been pulled from a dumpster, but were a treasure to him.
When it came around to Harry, Fleur showed off the mittens he'd gifted to her and thanked him formally, if not a bit coldly. There was no mention of the cloak. She then passed him a small box, which he opened to reveal a Mokeskin pouch. It was a rather incredible gift, especially given their rarity. He'd read about them, and how a number wizards use them to keep their most prized and personal possessions, since only the owner of the pouch can reach inside its folds.
"Why is there garlic over here?" Bill asked suddenly from beside the fireplace, catching everyone's attention.
"Is that a necklace?" George sniggered.
"It's from Luna," Harry said, laughing at the realization of what it was. "She told me her dad was selling them from the Quibbler, so I asked for one."
"Barmy," said Ron, shaking his head.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Ron trying to slide an unwrapped gift behind his back. "What's that?" he asked.
"What's what?" The tips of his ears burned red.
"Did Hermione buy you that?" Harry questioned, noticing it was a book.
"Uh, no." Ron answered, looking distinctly uncomfortable now. "It's, umm… from Lisa."
"Lisa?" Harry repeated, confused.
"Shh!" Ron whispered harshly. He looked pleadingly at Harry.
"Oi, Harry, you've got one left!" Charlie exclaimed, cutting Harry off before he could dig further. He popped out from behind the tree, holding a small package wrapped in parchment in his hands. "Ooo! It's from a bird! the writing is way too nice to be a bloke's."
Harry could feel all eyes in the room burning into him with great interest as he took the gift in his hands. A card was attached with only his name on it, and from the outside the gift looked rather plain. But upon ripping open the package, it was anything but.
"Bugger me…" He could hear Ron from over his shoulder.
Bugger me was right. Harry had never seen anything like it before; not in any of the shops he'd visited or catalogues he'd browsed. It was exquisite and inconceivably expensive. And he knew exactly from whom it was from.
In his hand, rested a replica of the circlet of flowers he'd created for Daphne on the night of Slughorn's party. The detailing and the colors were immaculate. Lilies, roses, and orchids, all intertwined with one another, magically crafted from meticulously arranged pieces of stained glass, precious metals, and glimmering gems.
Harry was speechless.
"Who's it from?" Ron asked the question everyone in the room wanted to know.
"Daphne," he replied, unthinking.
With his answer, from across the room on the couch, Fleur's head reeled around, and she looked—genuinely looked at him for the first time that morning. There was something in her eye. Something that cracked the ice between them. But when he blinked it was gone.
Before anything else could be said, a soft pop sounded from outside.
Arthur stood from his chair, and went to the front door to meet the guest. "Oh, Albus! What a pleasant surprise! Come in, come in, everyone is downstairs."
Harry felt a genuine smile spread across his face. Since leaving Hogwarts for the holidays, it had been the longest he'd gone without seeing Professor Dumbledore for quite some time.
"Thank you, Arthur," Dumbledore's sage voice thanked as he walked through the front door and joined them. "Although I'm afraid I shan't be staying long. Ah, Charlie, I was pleasantly surprised when I heard of your arrival."
"It's good to see you too, sir," Charlie grinned.
"Albus, you must join us for some breakfast," Mrs. Weasley offered. She hurried over to the kitchen and pulled out an extra chair.
"I might have time for a spot of tea and a biscuit, but sadly I must be on my way with Harry soon."
"Oh…" Mrs. Weasley sounded a touch disappointed. "What for? We've only just finished opening presents, and he hasn't even eaten yet!"
Dumbledore put on a disheartened face. "There is some unfortunate business that was brought to my attention in regards to the Black Family Estate. It must be dealt with swiftly. I'm sure Harry won't mind packing a few things for the road." He looked at him meaningfully, and Harry felt a bubble of anticipation build inside him.
"Oh, er—yes, I don't mind. Not at all!" said Harry, quickly putting Daphne's gift back in its box and standing.
They stayed to chat briefly over breakfast with the Weasley family. Dumbledore sat sipping and swirling his tea, enquiring amiably after them all. When the time had eventually come for them to depart, Mrs. Weasley was very reluctant for him to leave and tried her best to persuade Dumbledore, to no avail.
"Where are we really going, sir?" Harry asked as they walked down the lane past the protective boundaries of the Burrow.
Dumbledore smiled at him through his snowy whiskers. "I was speaking true when I said we had to stop by Grimmauld Place for a bit of business. But I fear my reasons for your company today are much more selfish."
"How so?"
"I felt the need for this Christmas, my—" He stopped. A strange emotion flashed over his face, and his countenance appeared torn over something. "I wish for this Christmas to be special one and there is no one I would rather spend it with than you, Harry." It was rare to see Dumbledore look so vulnerable, the aged lines of his face cracked and forming thick fissures over his wrinkled skin.
Harry didn't quite know what to say in response. Christmas was always such a strange time of the year for him, without his own family. It had been that way since living with the Dursleys, and the feeling had not changed since spending it with the Weasleys, albeit less miserable all around.
Dumbledore, appearing to understand this, wordlessly extended his arm for Harry to take. With hardly a sound, they reappeared together outside Grimmauld Place.
It was a quiet morning, without a single soul to be seen in the tucked away London neighborhood. Snow fell lightly from the sky, forming small tufts on the heads of iron gates, and blanketing the trees of the park across the street.
Pushing the door open, Harry followed Dumbledore inside the ancient home. Although the air remained stale and musty, the home was not the same as he'd remembered it from months ago. The lingering darkness which seemed to ooze from the very foundations of the townhouse had almost disappeared entirely. It stood a crisp, cleaner image than its dank, nearly uninhabitable past self. Much of its historic grandeur was still lost to time, but with a good scrubbing it looked fairly presentable.
The portrait of Walburga Black still hung on the wall, and the troll foot remained by the front door. But the aura about the house was significantly less malevolent.
"Kreacher has been diligent in his housekeeping duties since the beginning of the year," Dumbledore remarked as they passed the sleeping portrait of Walburga Black.
"It took some persuading, but he's not as awful as he used to be."
"It could also be the master." Dumbledore folded his hands behind his back and hummed softly to himself.
As if sensing their topic of conversation, a loud pop sounded directly in front of them.
"Halfblood master has returned," the old elf croaked, bowing as low as his crooked spine would allow. "Kreacher has followed Master's orders and cleaned Mistress' house."
"Thank you Kreacher, it looks very nice."
"Master comes home on Christmas, but Kreacher doesn't have a gift for master…" An ugly mess of a smile suddenly filled his face, and the elf reached inside the tattered pillowcase fit around his shoulders. Pinched between his arthritic fingers, Kreacher held up a single maggot to Harry.
Dumbledore started to chuckle heartily. "I believe that is his gift to you, Harry."
"Er, thanks Kreacher, but I'm okay."
"As Master commands." Kreacher stuffed the maggot back into the pillowcase with a cackle. He then peered up at Dumbledore and Harry with a pinched, serious expression. "Kreacher has been finding old stinky-dungster going through Master's things again," he said.
"I will speak to Mundungus as soon as I can," Dumbledore promised the elf, who bowed a final time before disappearing again.
"What was he talking about Mundungus for?" Harry asked suspiciously. He had a strong dislike for the man, given the role he played in allowing the Dementor attack which nearly saw him expelled.
"Mundungus has taken liberties to peruse the Black family wares, so to speak. He has been caught before, and his punishment was not pleasant. We will have words, I promise you." Harry could feel the implication behind Dumbledore's words and let the issue drop.
"Is no one here today?" Harry asked, noting the eerie silence throughout the house.
"Everyone deserves a day of rest, especially on Christmas." Dumbledore's gloved hand tapped gently on the frame of the door as they passed through on the way to the kitchen.
"And what about you?" Harry asked, looking at the headmaster intently.
There was a tired smile obscured by his beard as he spoke. "My dreams of rest and retirement have long passed me by. My work is not done yet—perhaps when this is all over…" he trailed off and sighed heavily as he took a seat at the kitchen table.
"I had a particularly interesting conversation with Kingsley last night," he continued, on a tangent. Dumbledore's eyes glimmered knowingly at Harry.
"Did he tell you what I found? I wanted to speak to you, but I couldn't find you before boarding the train."
"Apologies, I was out of the castle the day of your departure. But yes, the evidence certainly doesn't stack up in Mr. Malfoy's favour."
"So he'll be stopped?" Harry could hardly keep the vindication out of his voice.
"At some point he will." There was a sadness to Dumbledore's deep blue eyes. "But as far as Kingsley knows, the matter is in hand, and there is no clear evidence to report."
It took Harry a moment to process what he'd just heard. "You can't be serious?" his voice clipped with anger. "Surely Malfoy can't get away with what he's done?"
"He cannot," Dumbledore agreed calmly.
"But you told Kingsley there wasn't anything to report?"
"I did."
"He tried to kill a student!" Harry shouted. Dumbledore flinched at his words, which fuelled him onwards. "And what about Snape? I heard him plotting with Malfoy! He was talking about helping him! You can't honestly let the two of them walk around freely while doing Voldemort's bidding!" At some point in his ranting Harry had stood from his seat.
"Settle down, Harry." Dumbledore's voice was firm.
Begrudgingly, Harry took his seat again, and Dumbledore's face settled into a weary expression.
"Draco Malfoy is indeed a Death Eater, and has been given a mission to accomplish within Hogwarts, though his commitment to the cause remains to be determined. I commend you on uncovering this on your own, Harry."
"What is his mission?"
"Now, you see, is where we reach the crux of the problem. Draco Malfoy's mission is to kill me," Dumbledore explained as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He continued before Harry could interrupt. "My life has been under threat from dark mages far more vicious and cunning than the likes of Draco Malfoy. My life is under no threat by him—but the lives of others…"
"Katie?" finished Harry.
"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed. Something gleamed at the edge of his sagging eyelids. "Miss Bell was a tragic casualty of an attempt directed at my own life. The necklace was to be delivered to me, and thankfully she survived."
"Why is he not expelled?"
"If the situation was painted so simply, I would not hesitate a second to do so. But the issue remains that the full extent of Mr. Malfoy's role at Hogwarts is unknown. Each attempt Professor Snape makes at uncovering the full extent of his mission is rebuffed. Yes, Harry, Severus continues to work on my behalf. Strange things are happening within the walls of Hogwarts, and they are all connected to Draco Malfoy."
"The portraits and the stairs…" Harry said aloud. Everything he had noticed in the past month was starting to make much more sense.
"You've noticed it as well?" Dumbledore looked intrigued.
"I was almost bucked off the fifth floor staircase," Harry deadpanned.
Dumbledore grimaced. "Hogwarts has always had a peculiar temperament, but not to this extent. I've called in an expert on the art of the castle, Alfred Greengrass, to confirm my suspicions. He is Miss Greengrass' father," Dumbledore supplied, as if reading his thoughts. "That is also without mentioning other incidents around the school, such as the nature of our encounter with the Acromantula."
Harry rubbed at his jaw, remembering that day very well. "Couldn't you just slip Malfoy some Veritaserum?" he asked hopefully.
"It would be too risky," Dumbledore told Harry what he deep down already knew. "Tom has devised methods to circumvent the potion and has likely passed them on to Mr. Malfoy. His Aunt has taught him the skills of Occlumency as well. We must wait to see if the pressure of his task forces him to confide him Severus. The danger of removing Draco from the equation is too great and would introduce an unknown we couldn't account for."
An unsettling feeling curled in the pit of Harry's stomach. He didn't like this one bit. There was too much that could go wrong—too many innocents who could get hurt, and it all relied on Draco Malfoy.
"Why did you bring me here, sir? Does it really have to do with the Black Estate?" Harry asked, his curiosity over the point of their visit getting the better of him.
"It does in a way, yes. The estate is yours as we have already established, passed down to you as Sirius' heir. The matter I wish to speak to you about is transferring the knowledge of its secret to you."
"To me?" Harry pointed to himself. "Why?"
"It…" Dumbledore hesitated with a frown, his gloved hand twitching by his side. "It was a matter that needed to be addressed upon your coming majority. The house legally belongs to you, and given your growing status in the Order I thought it appropriate to pass the secret on as well."
Harry found the request odd. Sirius had been the legal owner of the house as well, but Dumbledore was still the secret keeper during that time. Of course, Sirius' situation was unique after escaping Azkaban, but something still felt off.
"Of course, sir," Harry replied after a good deal of consideration. He would accept being the secret keeper, only because he did not have a good enough reason to refuse.
"Excellent," said Dumbledore with relieved smile. Some tension disappeared from his sloped shoulders. "Now, the process can be a touch demanding," Dumbledore explained as he pulled out his wand, "but one that can be done relatively quickly if all goes well."
With a simple flick of his wrist, Dumbledore cleared the furniture to one side of the room.
"The spell requires us to stand at the heart of the home. Luckily most old magical homes are situated in a way such that the heart is found in an open and convenient space, rather than somewhere like the privy," he continued with a twinkle in his eye.
Glancing around the room as if to check all was set, Dumbledore closed his eyes. A low chant of Latin was muttered under his breath, as he gently weaved his wand through the air, tracing invisible patterns in complex sequences. The further along he worked through the spell, the quicker he spoke, and soon enough all Harry could hear was the incomprehensible stream of a forgotten language. Beads of sweat dripped down the lines of his face, his eyes squinted behind his half-moon spectacles, and strain leaked into his voice by an unseen force.
Something filled the room, spreading throughout the air like static before the strike of lightening. The walls began to shake, and the floor creaked horribly beneath them as if on the verge of collapsing. The kitchen began to spin around them, everything turning into a blur except Dumbledore at its center. Thin strings of brilliant light came shooting from his wand in every direction, connecting into a tangled, glowing web.
The intensity of the chant increased, with Dumbledore's entire body shaking as he shouted out the incantation. Before Harry had the chance to move and support him, an unexpected pain jabbed his forehead. What started as a small prick, slowly evolved into a stabbing sensation which threatened to split open his skull.
Throughout all of this, a ball of light floated from the tip of Dumbledore's wand, through the web, and across the room towards Harry. The glowing orb passed into him, instantly killing his pain as it assimilated with his body. His mind was immediately overwhelmed with the knowledge of the secret, tendrils of magic pulling and connecting him with each and every member imparted with its contents.
The room drew still, and Harry and Dumbledore both collapsed to the floor.
Picking himself up and panting breathlessly, he looked over at his mentor. "What happened to 'a touch demanding'?"
"Would you have been so eager to do it had I told you the truth?" Dumbledore retorted good-naturedly, his eyes shining with amusement.
Helping the old wizard to his feet, Harry asked, "Is that all for today?"
Readjusting his spectacles to the crook of his nose, Dumbledore shook his head.
"There is one more place I wish to take you—a place rather special to me." He leaned heavily against the wall as he spoke. "I need a moment of respite, Harry, if you don't mind taking us there."
"Where is it, sir?"
Dumbledore gestured to his eyes, and Harry knew what to expect. The image of an iron-gate at the end of rocky path slipped gently into his mind.
The sea air was crisp on his nose when they landed, the salt invigorating him with a newfound energy. A biting chill was carried off the water's surface by the wind, forcing Dumbledore to cast a warming charm to fend off the worst of it.
They stood on a narrow gravel path along a cliff's edge, overlooking a breathtaking view of waves crashing against the rocky shore in great gushes of white foam. Deep grey strokes were painted across the sky, and the sun hid modestly behind one of its brushes.
A bend in the path approached, slowing their pace, and bringing them nearer to the edge of the drop off to the churning waters below. The iron gate he'd seen in his mind stood at this point. Dumbledore tapped it twice with his wand, and it swung open.
The old wizard walked to the very edge, his rose colored robes flying behind him in the wind. He indicated with his hand for Harry to come over. Stepping off the path, Harry peered off the cliff, feeling the spray on his face.
To his left, Dumbledore casually stepped off and dropped.
Harry felt his heart leap into his throat.
Dumbledore laughed—he hadn't dropped to the rocky floor hundreds of feet below. In fact, he was still standing in front of Harry, floating over nothing, a foot from the safety of the cliff's solid edge. Dumbledore took another step over the open water and winked. "You may join me," he said.
Harry wasn't remotely afraid of heights, losing all sense of fear from his years playing Quidditch. But standing there, seemingly inches from plunging to his doom, he felt like a mad man. Scrounging up every ounce of his courage, squeezing his eyes, and clenching his fist with enough force to draw blood, he stepped off as well.
Expecting to fall weightlessly into the gentle arms of gravity, Harry nearly stumbled when his foot it solid ground. Peaking, he saw himself suspended in midair, looking past his feet and into the choppy waves below.
"There is a path, your eyes do not deceive you," said Dumbledore. "Though I would recommend following me closely."
Harry did exactly that, moving quickly with his focus directed on the precise location of Dumbledore's each step. He didn't dare look down again.
The invisible path snaked its way down the cliff face, to where a dark hole could be seen carved into the rock. The cleft was naturally made and likely would have gone unnoticed for a millennia had they not been led directly to it.
A small wooden bench sat at its entrance. Behind it lay a rock-lined garden filled with rows and rows of pink flowers. In weather like this—in the heart of winter—they shouldn't have been alive, but setting foot in the small shelter he could feel the magic soaked deep into its rocky walls.
Dumbledore was bent over, tending to the garden, his ungloved hand brushing over the blushing petals.
"I didn't know you took up gardening," said Harry.
"It is one of the many hobbies I have picked up over the years," Dumbledore spoke softly, his voice carried by a light breeze. "I didn't particularly enjoy Herbology when I attended Hogwarts, but I found non-magical plants to be much more pleasing to work with. There's a much smaller chance of being eaten."
Taking a closer look at the garden, Harry noticed it was organized in a very particular way. The flowers were spaced and lined evenly, every row containing the same amount, except for one, the last, which had fewer than the others. It looked almost as if room had been left for the addition of others.
"I planted my first nearly a century ago. My family used to come vacation here every year. Our visits became less frequent upon my father's imprisonment, until they stopped entirely when my mother died…" Dumbledore trailed off, lost in thought.
Harry had come to recognize these moods from Dumbledore. The one's where he was trapped in his past. They had become increasingly frequent as of late. A story was attached to each one, as if Dumbledore was unburdening himself bit by bit from some invisible weight.
"I was always on the more sentimental side—with Aberforth being the way he is, one of us had to be." Dumbledore took off his glasses to wipe, despite them not being dirty. "A pink carnation for each one: the first for my mother and another for my father. We never found out when exactly he passed away. The cottage we stayed at was gone by then, but I found somewhere else to keep them."
The quite literal hole-in-the-wall they were sitting in felt all the more sacred all of a sudden, almost as if his very presence was tarnishing such hallowed ground.
"This is Arianna's," his voice was thick as he led Harry to the third flower from the top. "I know them all by name. Your mother and father's—" he pointed to two that sat in the center of a collection of others "—the Longbottom's…"
Harry missed those belonging to Neville's parents, struggling to tear his eyes away from his parents.
"A row for the McKinnon family." Harry remembered hearing from Mad-Eye about the butchering of their entire family by a group of Death Eaters led by a man called Travers. "Peter Pettigrew—" Harry looked to a solitary flower sitting between his parents and Neville's "—for the boy he was, not the man he became." Harry could see a few petals twisted against the side of its stem, looking like it at one point it had nearly been pulled out. "Cedric Diggory." There was a slight tremble in Dumbledore's hand as he pointed to the late Hufflepuff. "Sirius Black." The flower of his godfather sat in the last and shortest row.
"These are—"
"All those I cared for, whose time passed before my own."
"How many?" asked Harry, a heaviness to his soul. There were so many flowers.
"I've never gone back and counted. They all meant too much to me to simply be a number. I can picture each one perfectly in my mind—their shape, their shade, their smell. But to count them, would be too painful for an old man like me."
Something slipped from his cheek and darkened a spot on the dirt below.
"How do you keep going? So many people… so much death…"
Dumbledore turned to look at him then, his blue eyes watery but firm. "The only thing we can do is move forward. We honour them, we cherish them, but what good were their lives if we do not carry on with our own to make the world a better place in their memory." His gloved hand lingered tenderly on the flower named for his sister.
Dumbledore stood slowly and made to sit beside Harry on the bench. "It is not a pleasant thought, my boy, but you have been tending your own garden just as I have my own. You have lost much and more than I had at your age; but unlike myself who basked in my misery and made terrible mistakes, you have been brave, courageous, and strong—a true Gryffindor."
"You once told me that despite our similarities, there was a reason I was sorted into Gryffindor and Voldemort to Slytherin," Harry remarked.
"It is true in every way that truly matters, Harry," said Dumbledore significantly. "Tom Riddle has never dealt with true loss; he has never felt the pain of caring for someone so deeply that you wish it had been yourself who died in their place. But that is what makes us strong. It is what carries us through the fight, even when darkness surrounds us."
Tears were streaming freely down Dumbledore's aged face when he turned back to Harry following a moment of profound silence. "The war to come will not be kind. There will come a time when death—"
"Professor," Harry tried to interrupt, a feeling of untraceable dread clamped around his throat like the fingers of death.
"You must listen, Harry—please," Dumbledore pleaded, his voice desperate and full of anguish. "There will be a time when those closest to you perish. You must not let their deaths destroy you. You must not stop. You will feel your heart break and your soul shatter, and you will think they will never be put whole again. But you must fight on and do what needs to be done."
It was all too much for him to take in at once. Why was Dumbledore speaking as if they were doomed to die?
"And you'll be beside me each step of the way? Together, we'll defeat Voldemort just like you said?"
He held Harry's gaze, his eyes filled with too many emotions to decipher.
"Always."
And Harry believed him.
"Professor?" he asked suddenly. "What do you know about love?"
Dumbledore's brows lifted, a spark of life returning to his being. "I have loved many over my lifetime, as well as a number of places and things. But that is not what you are asking, is it? I suspect you speak of the romantic kind."
Harry nodded, none of the expected feelings of shyness from such a topic were present. It felt as though him and Dumbledore were stripped bare before one another, where nothing of substance could be kept between them.
"I had loved once—I suppose I still do. It is not something that fades away easily," he answered finally, his voice far away and his eyes looking out to the sun starting its descent over the horizon. "I did not love in the usual sense of the word. I tend to do things differently. It was not sexual in nature, but rather a connection of intellectual intimacy between equals. We challenged each other, pushed ourselves to the limit and beyond, and made a great number of discoveries."
"Like what?" Harry asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. much to Dumbledore's amusement.
"I suppose I can show you a trick or two," said Dumbledore, amused. He took out his wand and pointed it to the setting sun.
"Mutadonum Natura," Dumbledore incanted and a beam of golden light shot out of his wand and into the sky. The clouds began shift and swirl before disappearing entirely, and the radiant energy emitted by the sun surged towards them. Had he not known any better, he would have thought it was only noon. The sun was entirely too bright for its position in the sky and heat washed over them as though it were the dying days of summer.
"You can change the weather?"
"We wished we could," Dumbledore laughed heartily. "We slaved away for months trying to do as you just said, but instead we devised a spell that could only augment what was already present. It is a false dawn, so to speak, lacking the wild power of true nature, yet an incredible creation in its own right."
"Is there anything else?" These were the times when Harry wished he could spend an eternity picking Dumbledore's brain and seeing what genius lay hidden within.
"Of course, though perhaps I can show you something you could perform without difficulty." He cast a Patronus, and the musical cry of a Phoenix sang overhead. "We experimented quite a bit with the Patronus Charm and its many uses." As he spoke, his corporeal projection slowly dispersed into a white mist before forming into a tight sphere in front of him. "Beyond its corporeal form, it can shield in whichever way you wish, and can carry messages to certain locations."
"It's brilliant," said Harry, as he cancelled the spell.
"Oh, we knew we were," Dumbledore admitted without a hint of arrogance. "We figured we were invincible, but our dreams got the better of us in the end."
"What happened?"
"Tragedy." The word was sharp on his tongue, its regret lingering in the air. "Things were never the same between us."
"Was there ever any hope?" Harry asked, no longer inquiring of Dumbledore's past, but of his own selfish fears.
"Of course! When love is concerned there is always hope. Love is rarely ever simple. Love is complex and much is hidden and lost in its translation. It is unexpected—one often does not realize they are in love until it is too late. It can be a frightening experience, something that tears you apart from the inside. It is a curse that makes us do things beyond our imagination—some great, some terrible—but it is something we cannot live without."
Harry swallowed thickly, his mind and body numb.
"Fear not, Harry. Good often comes from bad, and it is always worth to give love a chance." The glint of understanding in his deep blue eyes, made Harry wonder if he knew more than what he was letting on.
"Speaking of love," Dumbledore continued. "I had heard there is little to be found between yourself and our new Minister. Rufus has always been a Ministry man. It was only a matter of time before he sought you out for aid. I fear your popularity has overtaken mine! I might just need to start handing out brochures again." He finished with a cheeky grin.
"Yes—well, Minister Scrimgeour should try not to piss off the person he is recruiting next time," Harry huffed. "He called me your man, you know?"
Dumbledore looked intrigued by this. "In certain circles, a statement like that could be rather scandalous," he said, making Harry laugh.
"I told him that I was my own man."
"A finer answer, you could not have given." Dumbledore beamed at him with utmost pride.
"Before we go, sir," Harry started, noticing how close the sun crept towards the horizon. Streaks of pinks and purples were splayed out on the canvas that was the sky. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you for quite a while."
Dumbledore motioned for him to continue.
"Throughout our lessons, I've had the feeling that there is something you've been building towards. That there is a point to all the memories we've watched and the history we've discussed. And when we visited the orphanage I remember asking how Voldemort managed to stay alive all these years. You told me we would discuss it later. All this—all we have learnt so far, is because it has something to do with how Voldemort cheated death, doesn't it?"
Waves crashed beneath them, the sound echoing into the hidden cave.
"I have passed many of my own personal items to you over the year," Dumbledore finally said, cutting the silence. "Do you remember which were the first two?"
"It was a book written by your father, and one titled Secrets of the Darkest Arts."
Dumbledore hummed to himself, thinking over something in his head. The mood between was suddenly very serious.
"Tell me, Harry, what do you know of Horcruxes?"