Disclaimer: The rights to the Harry Potter series go to J.K. Rowling. All original ideas present in this belong to me.

Chapter Thirty-Eight | Understanding

Hermione's chest rises laboriously, her pale skin almost blending in with the hospital sheets, blanched as they are. I can picture in my mind the knotted mess of scar tissue that runs from her shoulder to her belly, straining against the pull of her lungs. Scar tissue that can't be healed, not fully at least, the Beisht-Kione's fell form reflecting the magic that courses through it.

Fleur and I did our best for Hermione – her yesterday, and me this morning – and while it will fade somewhat, she'll still bear a mark of the second tasks happenings for the rest of her life.

I find myself both thankful and annoyed that my well-used healing spells have met their match in the form of a cosmetic change. It lets me know they're not perfect, but it also lets me know that I'll have to abuse concealment charms if I manage to injure myself horrifically in the future.

A warm hand settles on my shoulder and I look up, offering a faltering smile to Fleur as she pulls up next to me, somehow knowing where I'd be without me telling her.

I didn't realize I was so predictable.

"Did you rest well?" I ask, kissing her on the cheek and laying my head on her arm, letting my eyes rest for a moment.

"Oui, I did," she replies, her brow furrowing a touch. "When did you wake up?"

I scratch the back of my head, shrugging tiredly. "Around six-ish? Maybe earlier?"

Fleur curses under her breath. "Helene."

"Hey, I know, I know." I put my hands up in defeat. "I just couldn't sleep, worrying about Hermione," I explain, gesturing to my unconscious friend.

My closest friend.

"I understand," Fleur sighs, rubbing her forehead. "Promise to get some rest later? Take a nap?"

I nod. "Promise."

She kisses the top of my head, and I find myself wondering if my hair scratches her chin.

My train of thought is quickly derailed as Hermione begins to stir, an almost imperceptible moan snaking its way out of her mouth, only noticeable due to my ritual enhanced senses.

"Hermione? Hey, you there?" I whisper, laying a hand on her arm.

"I'll get Madam Pomfrey," Fleur mutters, silently getting out of her chair.

"Thank you," I say, keeping watch on Hermione in the probable case of her leaping out of bed in a panic, what with her having passed out the other day due to severe trauma.

Her lips move slowly, silent gibberish spoken in the daze of a half-dream, her eyelids fluttering languidly as she returns to the land of the living bit by bit.

Hermione groans unintelligibly, shoulders quivering as she attempts to sit up.

I place a hand on her shoulder, making sure to keep it away from her injury. "Hey, you've gotta' stay in bed, alright Hermione? Madam Pomfrey would be in a tiff if she caught you wandering around the Hospital Wing."

"H- hospital Wing?" she croaks, eyes cracking open just a sliver. "What?"

"You were badly injured during the second task. Madame Pomfrey should be here in just a second to check up on you," I explain.

She nods dazedly as she settles back into bed, a frown crossing her features.

I hear the quiet shuffle of footsteps behind me and turn to see Fleur returning with Madame Pomfrey by her side.

"Thank you for fetching me dears," she says in greeting, her face held in its usual pinched expression. She casts her wand over Hermione, a myriad of different lights blinking away at the tip of it as she checks her over, nodding in approval at whatever information she receives.

With a flick of her wrist, she summons a small crystal vial full of a thin, burgundy liquid. She twists the top off with a slight pop, handing the vial to Hermione. "Please drink this Miss Granger."

Hermione takes the vial, raising it to her lips with pale fingers, weakly gulping down the potion. She grimaces at the taste, screwing her eyes shut as she tosses the rest of it back, handing the vial back to Madame Pomfrey with a shake of her head.

"Well, that sure woke me up," she mutters, eyes now fully open yet still looking slightly bleary.

"I've always said that blood-replenishers are often quite a bit more effective than a cuppa," Pomfrey says jokingly, glancing towards me. "Has Miss Potter told you why you're here?"

Hermione shakes her head. "Not really, just that I was injured during the second task."

She tuts quietly, a low quiet sigh escaping her. "What do you remember of the other day?"

"I… don't remember much. I was in the lake." She raises her hand and presses it to her shoulder in remembrance, rubbing slightly. She winces in pain at the contact. "My chest hurt, and I was confused. I- I just remember Viktor screaming something in Bulgarian before he pushed me away." She looks up at us, fear in her eyes. "W- where's Viktor?"

Madame Pomfrey's shoulders rise and fall as she sighs, a drawn look on her face. "Miss Granger… there's no easy way to say this, but Mister Krum didn't make it."

Hermione stares at Madame Pomfrey unblinkingly, eyes losing focus as her gaze bores through and past her, off into space. "He… he's dead?" she whispers, lips slightly parted and jaw hanging loose.

"Yes, Miss Granger," she confirms, biting her lip. "I'm so sorry."

Hermione swallows heavily, throat bobbing as her eyes begin to flicker with tears. "Oh," she whispers, sounding completely and utterly lost.

I sit there, heart breaking at the sight of Hermione's world crumbling before her very eyes. The death of a friend – maybe something even closer – is never easy to deal with. Even worse when it's the first.

"Hey," I say, quietly. The only sign I've caught Hermione's attention is the brief flicker of her eyelids. "I'm here for you." I gesture to Fleur, who's face is etched with concern. "We're here for you. If you need anything, anything at all, just ask. You need to chat at four in the morning? Wake me up any time, alright?"

She nods shakily, tears welling up at the corners of her eyes, and just like a switch has been flipped, she breaks down, sobbing as she reaches forward and latches on to me, face buried in my chest.

I hum tunelessly as I rub her back, holding her close. "I'm right here Hermione. Right here."

She mutters something unintelligible, the words lost in the fabric of my jumper as they mingle with tears.

Madame Pomfrey pats my shoulder as she gets up. "I'm going to head back to my office, please don't hesitate to call me if you need me."

I nod in thanks, Hermione's frizzy curls scratching at my cheek.

Hermione says something again, and I turn back to her. "Sorry, I didn't hear you."

She hiccups loudly, pulling her head back. "C- can you do…" she looks past me, waiting for Pomfrey to leave. As soon as her office door shuts, Hermione has her hands buried in my jumper, fistfuls of cotton knotted in her tight grasp. "Can you b- bring him back?"

My eyes well up with tears at the sight of her, how broken she looks. "I… I'm sorry Hermione, I can't."

"Why!?" she shouts. She shuts her eyes tight, letting out a long slow breath, before whispering, "Why not?"

I grimace, not really sure of how to tell her that there's not enough of Viktor left for me to bring back.

"Why?"

"He was eaten by the Hydra," I blurt, immediately regretting my decision. It wouldn't take anything at all for her to connect the dots between eaten by a Hydra, and the most corrosive stomach acids known to the magical world. "I'm sorry, I just- I couldn't even if I tried. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, but there's nothing I can do."

She coughs, almost choking as she does so. "Can… can I be left alone, please?" she asks, eyes downcast, a fist pressed to her mouth. "I need some time to think."

I sigh quietly, but acquiesce, squeezing her shoulder once as I let her go. "I'll come back around before dinner if you're not up and out yet, alright?"

She nods, laying her hands across her lap and staring at them. "Thank you," she whispers.

"There's no need to thank me," I say, smiling weakly at her. "I'll always be here for you, yeah? Sisters have to stick together."

Hermione lets out a puff of air, tilting her head as she looks back up at me, tears staining her face. "Sisters, huh?"

My mouth opens and closes as I wonder what to say, worried that I've overstepped my bounds.

I don't have to worry for long though, as Hermione makes an odd choking noise that I quickly realize is a laugh.

"You look so worried," she chuckles morosely. "It's… I'm flattered that you consider me your sister. If it wasn't for my-," she coughs, rubbing her throat before sniffing loudly. "My… well, I consider you the same."

I pause for a moment, wondering whether I should question her on her interrupted line of thought, before deciding better. "Glad to hear I haven't made an absolute fool of myself," I say, a dry laugh escaping my throat. "We'll uh- we'll leave you to it."

Fleur and I head out, and I turn back once more at the door to get a look at Hermione and make sure she's alright.

Well, as close to alright as she can be.

I catch a glimpse of her lying down, hands held over her eyes as she sobs quietly. It takes everything in me not to rush back and just try to be there for her, but I know that when Hermione says she wants space, she wants space.

I'll do my best not to suffocate her, but I won't let her deal with this all on her own.

"Do you think she'll be alright?" Fleur whispers.

I shrug. "It's going to take her time, but Hermione's stronger than most."

She nods, lips pursed. "This tournament is…" she shakes her head, huffing quietly. "I can't put into words how much I hate it, hate how it killed Viktor, how it killed all those Merpeople…"

I wrap one arm around her shoulders, squeezing lightly. "We've got a list of those responsible," I remind her.

Fleur's normally soft features harden, her expression forming into something indomitable. "And they'll all pay for what they've allowed to happen," she vows.

"And I'll be right there with you," I add, nodding resolutely.

I'm sure as I can be when I say that Bagman, Crouch, and Fudge better be prepared for a world of pain. Because whatever they've done to me, to Hermione, to Viktor… they're going to be paid back tenfold and change.

-::-

Black banners hang from the ceiling once more, flat and terribly conspicuous. Twisted, snarling gargoyles bearing the faces of the founder's beasts peek out from between the dark cloth. The Hall is silent, unbearably so, every student bearing the weight and understanding of the death of one they praised as Champion.

I lace my fingers together, resting them on the table in front of me as I look up to the front of the room, Dumbledore standing tall, yet bowed. He grasps the sides of his usual, winged podium, crooked knuckles standing in sharp relief against the weathered brass.

"It saddens me deeply to find us here once more, with black hanging from our ceilings," Dumbledore states, his head raised and tilted slightly as he looks up and onwards.

He clears his throat, blinking hard. "Just yesterday, tragedy befell us here at Hogwarts. Viktor Krum could easily be described as a man who accomplished very much in very little time. He was a student to look up to, and a symbol to strive towards."

"While Viktor was no stranger to achievement, I would like to instead focus on him, and who he was as a person." Dumbledore sweeps his hand back, gesturing towards the staff table. "To that end I would like to invite Igor Karkaroff to the stage."

I watch as Karkaroff stands tall, cocking his neck as he walks towards the stage. But I can't help but notice that there seems to be a weight about him. The way his head bows just so slightly, or how his beard is even more unkempt than normal.

"Looks like he really is capable of caring," I whisper to myself, feeling slightly torn to realize that while he's by no means a good person, he's just as human as I, or anyone else is.

Karkaroff nods to Dumbledore as he takes the stage, wrapping his fingers around the sides of the podium and holding tight. "It is no secret to anyone that Viktor was my favourite student," he begins, his gruff voice sounding oddly soft as it carries across the Hall. "I saw a spark in him when he first set foot inside Durmstrang, something to be nurtured and fed." He pounds his fist on the top of the podium. "Viktor was great, let there be no mistake about that. But, all of you should not just remember him for his abilities as a seeker, or his prodigious magical talent. While that is what he was famous for, he was so much more than that."

He slams his hand once more, voice raising as he continues. "Viktor was resolute, one of the few people I've met in this world who knew who he was and what he wanted, and was unashamed to live his life as himself. Remember Viktor for what he was and what he stood for and learn from him. Strive to be the best you can be in all things, and never settle for less than that." He raises his chin, looking off towards the sky. "Viktor, I will always be proud of you."

I'm almost moved to clap as Karkaroff bows his head, briskly marching back to his seat with his jaw clenched and chin set forward stubbornly, a glint in his eyes.

"Thank you, Igor," Dumbledore says as he reclaims the stage. "To all who wish to attend, a public service will be held this next Saturday in Viktor's hometown of Bansko. Please speak to your Head of House – or Headmaster or Headmistress for our visiting students – to request permission to attend."

With a sweep of his hands and a short bow, food appears on the tables. By the look of it, most of the food would be standard Durmstrang fare; thick soups, cabbage rolls, grilled meat, salads, and casseroles.

Homely and delicious.

I fill up my plate, a cornucopia of different foods that I never would have thought would come from the Balkans piling up before me. I find myself humming as I bite into a soft pepper stuffed with cheese and rice, the sweet vegetable bursting as my teeth sink into it.

As soon as I find myself enjoying the meal, that enjoyment twists into guilt, shame building up inside me for enjoying something when the mood in the air is so deeply sorrowful. I stare listlessly at the remainder of the pepper dangling from my fork, its insides dripping thickly onto the plate, my appetite lost.

With a sigh, I place the rest in my mouth, chewing slowly. What was just a second ago filled to the brim with flavour is now bland and tasteless, the texture that of slime and gristle.

Grimacing, I wash it down with cold water before pushing my plate away.

"Not hungry?" Fleur asks, looking as conflicted as I am.

I shake my head. "Haven't got much of an appetite," I say, the realization that Viktor is dead suddenly bearing down on me. I click my tongue. "We should have done something."

Fleur clenches her jaw, lips parted. "We didn't know."

"We still should have done something."

She turns her head towards me, teeth gritted. "You think I don't understand that? I made the decision as much as you did to not chase after him immediately."

I open my mouth, before shaking my head, guilt washing over me. "Fuck. I'm sorry, it's just so- "

"So awful."

I nod succinctly. "Yeah."

Fleur places her hand over mine, understanding in her eyes. "I tend to forget that you haven't dealt with the death of others in the way that I have… that your previous experiences don't line up with mine and the war."

I frown. "Orphan, remember?"

She shakes her head. "No, that's not what I mean." She purses her lips, looking down slightly. "You've never really had someone close to you die apart from Ron. You're not used to the present sense of death, it's always been something that happened a long time ago. There's a large difference between the two."

"I… yeah, I guess that makes sense," I concede, shrugging slightly.

She takes my hand with both of hers, bringing it up to her lips and kissing it softly. "What you said to Hermione goes for me too. If you need to talk to someone, talk to me, okay?"

I let out a puff of air, something neither close enough to a laugh or a sigh to be considered as such. "Thank you."

Fleur smiles, the expression not quite reaching her eyes as she squeezes my hands one last time before letting go, returning to her meal. "Any time."

I look back to my own plate with resignation. I pick through it at a sedate pace, taking a bite here and there. Not enough to fill up, but enough to get by.

Before I know it, the meal is over and I'm looking at an empty table, hands still poised over where my plate was and gripping nothing but air.

That's vaguely unnerving.

I get out of my seat, flinching when I hear someone clear their throat behind me. I turn around to see Dumbledore standing over me, a tired look on his face.

"Miss Potter… would I be able to speak with you in my office?" he asks, glancing up towards Fleur for a moment before his eyes flick back to me.

I frown. "About?"

"About the other day," he explains. "I'd like to speak about it more in depth."

I pause for a moment. "I'll meet you there," I say. "I've just got to walk Fleur back to the carriage."

He bows his head a touch. "I'll wait for you in my office then."

Fleur and I watch him leave the Hall, waiting for the rest of the crowd to leave. Once we're left amongst the last few stragglers I take Fleur's hand.

We walk in companionable silence, feeling no need to speak anymore after such a long day. The quiet carries over to the night as we step outside, the only sound that of us treading over melted snow, the slight crunch as the slush compacts and mixes with the mud and grass underneath.

"Sorry I'm so quiet," I apologize, having almost forgotten that I have a walking partner.

She smiles almost crookedly at me. "It's alright," she says, squeezing my hand. "We both have a lot on our minds."

"Thanks for being so understanding."

She shakes her head, pressing one hand to my cheek. "There's no need to thank me," she denies, kissing me softly on the cheek as I move to protest.

I sigh as the carriage comes into sight, not wanting to let her go.

I pull Fleur into a hug, burrowing my head underneath her chin and breathing in everything that makes Fleur, Fleur. Funnily enough, she doesn't really smell of flowers but instead of dark chocolate and citrus.

"I…"

I blink, realizing that those three fated words are on the tip of my tongue, and I don't know if I'm quite ready to say it.

I still don't think I'm quite capable of it.

"Thank you anyways," I murmur.

Fleur kisses me on the top of the head. "You're much too polite for your own good," she says jokingly. "It's adorable."

I bury my face even deeper in her shoulder, unused to compliments.

"And that is even more adorable."

"God damnit," I laugh.

"God damn what?"

"You, you idiot," I say, kissing her neck.

"Sweet dreams ma dulcinée, I hope your chat with Dumbledore goes smoothly. Try not to kill him again, yes?"

"Hush you." I kiss her once again, more softly this time. "Sleep well. I'll see you at breakfast," I say, watching as she climbs back into the carriage and gives me one last wave goodbye.

I pull my robes tight across my chest as I trek back towards the castle, a sticking charm on my shoes keeping me from slipping over patches of ice and slush.

Funny how life just hits you like this.

I was so sure that I would come out of the Tri-Wizard Tournament better than before, almost naïve enough to hope that it would be nothing more than a quick jaunt down memory lane before a very well-to-do and impressive duel with Voldemort culminating into a happily ever after.

I sigh as Hogwarts grows closer and closer, my breath coming out as a visible puff of smoky translucent air, disappearing in a whirl as it's caught up by one of the many winds that cut across the castle grounds.

Rubbing my hands together, I stride up towards the front doors, pushing one of the two open, the ancient carvings slick underneath my fingers. I close my eyes as the warm air washes over me.

Now that I think of it, it's odd that while I'm not really bothered by the cold as much as I once was, but I find myself craving warmth. Life is different when you're half dead.

Legs still somewhat frozen, I slowly make my way up the stairs and off towards Dumbledore's office, the gargoyle shuffling out of my way as soon as I come into sight. The spiral staircase twists in a familiar manner, almost climbing in on itself as I ascend.

"Please, come in," I hear as I stand in front of the door, twisting the latch and allowing myself entrance.

Dumbledore sits behind his desk, a steaming kettle placed just to his left and two mugs set on opposing sides of the table.

I sit down, taking a sip from the proffered tea, enjoying the bittersweet tang as the nearly scalding liquid spills over my tongue. Setting the cup down, I look up at my singular audience.

Well... he could be better described as an interrogation suspect, sans overly-bright headlamp directed right into his face.

"The first thing I'd like to ask, is why in the hell were hostages still involved in the second task?"

Dumbledore draws one hand over his brow, showing every single bit of his one hundred and thirteen years in that lone gesture. He looks more drawn than I've ever seen him, like all his shortcomings and misdeeds have caught up with him all at once and his mind and body can't quite handle the onslaught of shame and guilt that is suddenly bearing down on him.

At least, I imagine he's swamped in shame and guilt, otherwise he's a better actor than Sirius and Crouch Jr. combined.

"I tried to do everything I could, but there was no way for me to get around Bagman and the rest of the panel. They were adamant about the hostages being involved, and my hands were tied."

"Your hands were tied?" I hiss through gritted teeth, leaning forward slightly. "Did you do anything to keep the hostages safe?"

Dumbledore frowns, as if my question is completely and utterly ridiculous. "Of course I did," he states, sounding a bit offended. "I personally cast a layer of protections over each and every hostage. If I hadn't have done such, Miss Granger would not be with us today."

With a sigh I lean back into my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Sorry, I just… I'm very worried about her."

"That's completely understandable… and my apologies for not keeping you up to date on the situation with the second task," Dumbledore concedes.

I rub my eyes, resting my head on one fist. "So… why now?"

Dumbledore tilts his head. "Like I said the other day Miss Potter, I've come to realize that you're not the monster I believed you to be."

"No, no. That's not what I'm asking. Why now?" I ask, punctuating each word that comes out of my mouth with a tap on his desk. "You've obviously been wrestling with this for a while, so why is it now that you change your mind? Why is it now that you've suddenly decided to throw in your chips with me?"

He lets out a long, drawn out sigh. "Because I needed to be sure."

"Just as I was sure that you were the kind, benevolent leader you made yourself out to be?"

I watch as Dumbledore visibly holds back from speaking, the slightest pinch of his bottom lip telling me that he's biting down the words he wants to so badly say. I find myself almost smirking at his reaction, but instead settle my face into a stony blank.

There's no need for me to behave like a child when Dumbledore is finally here in front of me admitting his wrongs.

"You use people, Dumbledore. I'm glad that you finally recognize what you've done, and that you want to do something about it, but don't expect me to behave any differently around you or to treat you kindly." I jab my finger towards him in frustration and no small amount of spite. "You ignored my parents will and had me placed with the Dursleys, as opposed to the Longbottom, Bones, or Greengrass families. You willingly left me there, and never checked up on me. Not once. In addition to that, once I'd finally arrived at Hogwarts you allowed the most asinine, ridiculously unsafe things to occur. Why in the hell would you bring the Philosophers Stone to a school of all places? Knowing that Voldemort isn't as dead as the world believes him to be?" I clench my jaw, nausea washing over me. "Not to mention the… sickening things that Lockhart committed under your nose."

Dumbledore bows his head, an almost palpable aura of regret about him. "That…" he pauses. "My intention was never to- "

I interrupt him, my upper lip curled in contempt. "But, that's the problem. Intention. Good intentions, bad intentions, it doesn't matter what they were. No one does something thinking they're wrong. That's just insanity." I let out a long, slow breath, calming myself. "Just… let me finish speaking, alright?"

Dumbledore nods sullenly, so I continue. "Everything I've done, that you've done… hell- even what Voldemort has done, we've all done with the idea in mind that we're doing the right thing." I laugh drily, the harsh sound odd coming from the body of a teenage girl. "For all I know, I'm doing the wrong thing. For all I know, I'm the villain of someone else's story. But… that's not really the point. The point is, is that even when you thought you were doing the right thing, you were still willfully ignorant of what happened around you. That's not the sign of a man who thinks that what he's doing is right."

He replies with a sardonic chuckle of his own, his voice cracking. "I've always thought that I was the one best responsible to make the hard decisions… the ones that no one else wanted to make. It was hard not to when that was the crown that Britain foisted upon me." Dumbledore glances at Fawkes' empty perch, a look of resignation flitting over him. "I was always considered powerful. Gifted. My years at Hogwarts, my years travelling after graduation… and of course, my time with Gellert. Throughout all of it, I was always told that I was special. A wizard that comes along once in a lifetime, if that."

I sit still, silent, and allow him to continue. Dumbledore's expression morphs from sadness to something more bitter. The way his bottom lip quivers, or his eyes harden. A quiet whistle escapes him as he sucks air through his teeth, shaking his head. "Then, my sister was killed. Killed in some ridiculous spat between two power hungry young men with delusions of grandeur."

He pauses, swallowing heavily as his eyes flicker with tears. "I… I allowed that to happen. Me. Ariana died, was murdered, and I was the only one responsible for it. Something in me cracked and left me broken, something deep inside me drove me into a rage, an anger and fervor so thick and all encompassing that I didn't come out of it until I was standing over the bloodied, unconscious form of Gellert, with nothing but waste and death in my wake.

"I almost fell to pieces after that. The man who was once my lover, confidante… my closest friend, having become the maniacal, genocidal monster that the world will forever remember him as, and I couldn't help but think that, just maybe, that was my fault as well." Dumbledore scoffs, jaw clenched as he looks on blankly, momentarily lost in thought. He blinks a few times, shaking the daze from his head. "But the world revered me. They revered me for all that I'd done… the blood that I'd spilled. The countless, countless lives that I'd cut down like so many blades of grass." He turns towards me, locking eyes. "It's estimated that I'd killed nearly four thousand men during the war. Four thousand people, and just over a quarter of that magical. Those are the reserved estimates. I killed them, put them down regardless of whether they were conscripted, coerced, or willing participants of Gellert's insane pursuit of world conquest."

Dumbledore raises his hands above his head in a facsimile of cheering, his face twisted into something terrible. "The great Albus Dumbledore! How they sung my praises! Countless people lining the streets as I ventured back home. Cavalcades as far as the eye could see, cheering me on whether they knew it or not. I'd ended a war that encompassed both the magical and non-magical world, and I was found wanting. I'd spread a trail of death from Normandy to Berlin in some sort of twisted search for meaning. Some form of damnation or atonement to be made for my crimes, and instead I tallied them up even further."

I watch as Dumbledore weaves his story, the raw despair that laces itself into every word spoken or gesture made by the normally unaffable man, and I may be just beginning to understand who he is as a person.

A scared old man.

A man who's seen so much death and pain in his long, long life that he began to distance himself morally, whether he knew it or not. To submerse himself in Machiavellian schemes, all equally convoluted and ultimately ill-purposed, each one intended to fix something, to just try and make the world a better place.

"After that, I returned to Hogwarts. I took up the post as Headmaster, I took up the post as Chief Warlock, and I took up the post as Supreme Mugwump, and… you know what, Miss Potter?"

I tilt my head curiously. "What?"

"I've hated every last second of it. Every minute spent working with eels and snakes bearing the face of men, fools and swindlers that sought to drain every drop of wealth and happiness from those less fortunate than them. But, I did it because I thought I knew best, because it's the only thing I've ever known." Dumbledore laughs, truly laughs. A great, loud thing that almost shakes the room, and I feel the catharsis from it, watching as the weight leaves his shoulders. "Good God… do you realize how long I've wanted to tell someone that?"

I frown, pretending to tick the time off on my fingers. "About fifty odd years?"

He snorts. "Give or take, yes." Dumbledore sighs, the sound less of grief, and more of acceptance. "So, I dealt with the Wizengamot and the Confederation. A host of backstabbers all riding on the coattails of their fathers, who did the same before them. And then one day, word came about of the rise of a new Dark Lord, one within Britain's borders no less. Voldemort… Tom Riddle, whatever one would like to call him. A student that – thanks to you – I now understand the immense mistakes I made in dealing with."

Just as quickly as Dumbledore had cheered up, his face crumples back into a forlorn expression. "But once the war picked up and the country called to me once more to save them, I was terrified. I knew it was Tom, I knew that he'd sunk low, lower than any when it came to his depraved pursuit of power. I knew that I'd have to take up the mantle in the fight against yet another Dark Lord, but the deaths that were wrought at my hand so many years ago now stayed it. I couldn't… wouldn't bring myself to take another life. I…"

Dumbledore lets out a choking cough, his eyes glistening. "I was so scared of the power I wielded, how easy it would be to become a monster, how I nearly became a monster and only swayed from that path after my sister died at my own, foolish hands." He drums his fingers over his desk, before flicking his wand and summoning a tumbler and a small decanter containing a deep, amber liquor. He pours himself two fingers, pausing, before pouring himself one more.

Dumbledore sips at the drink, closing his eyes and savouring it, allowing the liquor to wash away his fears and pain.

"So, I went to war as a pacifist, a foolish endeavour at best and insanity at its worst. Worse yet, I told those following me, commanded them to not meet those they fought with the same force." He shakes his head, taking another, long sip. "Of course, many of them died. Benjy, Gideon and Fabian, Marlene, Dorcas… they all died because they looked up to me as some sort of paragon, as if the war crimes I'd committed would lead them to victory, and I ordered them to not harm the Death Eaters who would just as happily kill them as they would attend a play."

He downs the rest of his drink, hand trembling slightly as the glass meets his lips. A blur signals the tumbler being slammed into the table, the magically reinforced glass holding up underneath Dumbledore's sudden bout of temper. "The war carried on, just as it always does. People get used to it, somehow, in their own strange way. They become accustomed to routine, even if that routine is more parts terror than it is joy or complacence. I did as well. War was familiar to me, it was something I knew intimately, and I found myself quite shocked when a doddering con-woman began to tremble and shake, and a true, really, really true prophecy spilled from her lips."

Dumbledore tips his empty glass towards me in recognition. "I jumped at the chance… and how couldn't I? A child... a child, prophesied to destroy the Dark Lord I'd pitted myself against for a decade. I thought that you would be the ticket, the way out of all the misery that seems to follow me and the rest of the world." He looks up at me, his expression that of a lecturer, the teacher he once was long ago before the wars tore his psyche into a hundred little pieces. "Prophecies are… fickle at best, that's a cut and dry fact. But yours… yours was something special. I could feel it in the magic in the air, the way Sybill's eyes bled the incorporeal substance as she was forced to watch and recite a view that could be likened to the destruction of Sodom."

I frown, wondering why Death would gloss over something so monumental as that. I mean, I guess most things are inconsequential to an immortal, omnipotent being, but he's always been so… personable? He seems so human, and always has, even when I first met him. Yes, he's an asshole, but I don't find it surprising that Death, of all the gods, is a prick.

"No wonder Death was so interested in me," I say, tapping out a silent beat on the armrest and attempting to settle my mind. "He told me that my prophecy was ordained by Fate herself."

Dumbledore whistles quietly, and I can't help but chuckle at his reaction. He arches one eyebrow, very evidently aware of the somewhat childish action. "The majority of prophecies are simple glimpses into the future that are woven into spoken form… but it makes sense that yours was one given by Fate, if such a being could exist, of course."

"So… why the Dursleys then?"

He bows his head at that, shame washing over him. "I never could have imagined that you'd have been treated the way you were. Yes, I believed that they would never raise you with the same comforts the would raise their own flesh and blood son with, but never, ever in my many years have I heard of the type abuse they wrought upon you."

I frown, my stagnant blood boiling. "What do you mean by that?"

Dumbledore puts up his hands placatingly. "Abuse the type you suffered is so incredibly rare in the magical world that I didn't think it to truly exist until but a decade or two ago."

I open my mouth to speak, but this time Dumbledore interrupts me.

"Magic acts as a thread of sorts, tying the life and love of parent and child together, making it all but impossible for a magical parent to treat their child as the Dursleys treated you. It's simply not doable, as their magic itself would prevent them from even contemplating such a thing, let alone committing it." Dumbledore runs his fingers through his beard, his moustache bristling.

"Your family-," Dumbledore clicks his tongue, quickly correcting himself. "No, relatives... they didn't bear that same magic, and I was foolish to assume that they were incapable of what they did to you. I was too eager to assume the best in people, and too afraid to check in the case that I was wrong."

I grit my teeth, shutting my eyes tight and trying to wrestle with the information Dumbledore has given me. "Everything I suffered through… the awful, awful words, the cuffs upside the head that no six-year-old should take, the belting that occurred every time Vernon had something go wrong at work… all of that was because of one, simple little oversight, and your refusal to face up to the chance you were wrong?"

"Y- yes… yes it did."

"You… you- "

I bite my tongue, clenching one hand into a fist and pressing it to my mouth. "What about Lockhart? Are magicals incapable of rape too?" I spit, my words like venom.

"No, no they are not," he utters, lips pursed. "I… I am so, so terribly sorry that such a horrific thing happened to you when it should have been my job to protect you. I allowed myself to assume everything was well in the world, when I better than anyone should understand that the opposite is much more likely."

I wave my hand angrily, pushing down the urge to curse the man in front of me. "Sorry doesn't really cut it, Albus. I'd also like to bring up that you never answered my question. Why the Dursleys?"

"Because I was worried that you would turn out like me… like Gellert or Tom." He bites his cheek, moustache quirking upwards. "I was still… very focused on the idea of pacificism, and to be quite honest, it's only now that I've begun to realize how truly wrong I was. But, in some twisted way, I thought that you being raised in an even mix of both good and bad, neither spoiled nor forgotten, that you would break the mould of all the most powerful wizards I had ever known."

I draw my hand over my mouth, shaking my head. "So, it was all some sort of experiment?"

"No! No! Nothing of the sort!" Dumbledore argues, hands raised. "I never intended to treat you as something so animal, like an object to be studied and twisted to ease my worried mind."

He pinches the bridge of his long, crooked nose, his long hair falling forward and shrouding his face. "Nothing I ever do, nothing, will ever return what was taken from you. What I can do is try my best to aid you in your fight against Voldemort. In that, I will fight on your terms instead of my own." He raises his head, locking eyes with mine as he sets his wand out on the table in front of him, before laying his hands beside it in surrender. "My wand is yours to call on as you see fit."

I stare at him, in awe of the gesture he's just made.

To give lay down your wand, your wand, the one tool that sets magicals apart from their less gifted brethren, has got to be one of the most significant gestures of trust one can make in the magical world. Sure, it's somewhat lessened by the fact that Dumbledore is well under my thumb, but for a man of his age and stature to do such a thing?

It would be like King Arthur prostrating himself before a serf.

"I don't believe I'll ever trust you," I mutter, clenching one fist and looking down at it with lips pursed. "I'll never look at you the same way I once did… a grandfather, and one of the closest things I had to family in what was a miserable life." Dumbledore flinches visibly, his face drawn. "But, that doesn't mean that I will turn you away, because you are trying to make a difference, both in the way you act, and in your effort to truly make amends."

I take his wand, one that I assume was his before he won Death's own. I run my fingers over it, the wood smooth and aged. Holly, deep and rich, just like my own, albeit lesser-used wand.

I flip it over, handle forward, and hold it towards him. "I may never trust you, but that doesn't mean that I'd be so foolish as to ignore your help, nor spend so long a time trying to push you to realize the wrongs you've committed just to turn you away when you truly try to make reconciliations."

He grasps the wand – gently removing it from my hand – and nods once. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me, Albus." I hesitate, breath hitching. "Thank you. For trying to make a difference when most would find it pointless to do so."

He smiles at me, not the smile that an educator directs towards their pupil, nor the one that a politician directs towards one of their many subjects.

No, it's a smile of peers. A smile that tells me that Albus Dumbledore, one of the most accomplished mages of our time, deems me someone worth following.

Short chapter this time. The next one will have quite a bit more meat on it.

Aftermath man: I tried my best to utilize Viktor's character within the short breadth of chapters I had him in. He's a really underutilized character – the same with Fleur – and I was disappointed when Rowling didn't build on the two of them during OOTP.

Murkglow: I understand the use of will they/won't they, but I agree with you. Many authors make it drag on for too long, and while I feel that I was a bit short on it, it's better than having the story go 70k words with nothing happening between two characters that everyone knows are going to get together.

SalemTheSpeakerOfTruth: I'm always up for constructive criticism, as that's the main point in me writing fanfiction. This is a method for me to tinker around with different plot ideas I might like to use in other stories, or to just practice something as simple as character writing or fight scenes.

So, forgive me if I'm wrong for assuming, but I can't help but assume that you're implying that I'm racist in your review.

In no way, shape, or form am I implying that there's a correlation between race and intelligence, nor will I ever. It's absolutely reprehensible to imply as such, just as it's just downright, mind-numbingly stupid to infer that it is. Race and intelligence are not related whatsoever.

Now, genetics on the other hand have a slight, but very important play on the possibility of intelligence. What that means, is that every person on the planet is likely to fall within a certain "range" of sorts. Some may fall a little shorter and some may fall a little higher depending on the outcome of the mishmash of circumstances and events that make up birth and childhood. It's a minute difference, but it's a difference all the same.
But, the most important thing about that range is that if the person isn't nurtured enough as a child, be it through being encouraged to act in healthy ways, mentally engage with something aptly challenging on the regular, and just all around raised to be the best they can be they may end up falling shorter on their range than they otherwise would have.

So, what I'm saying is what every neurologist, behavioural psychologist, and other bio-psychological researchers say: intelligence is heritable to a degree. I know that in a decade we'll have a better idea of how the mind develops, but for now this is the best answer we have to the cumulative knowledge and research of a centuries worth of scientists.