Disclaimer: I did not write or perform I am a Rock and I do not own any rights to it. It was written and performed by Paul Simon, in conjunction with Art Garfunkel.
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A winter's day
In a deep and dark December;
From the high window of the tower, the whole expanse of Hogwarts' grounds could be seen. A blanket of thick white snow covered the land, pristine and silent under the cloudy December sky. A cool autumn had given way to a harsh and deep winter. This was the fourth or fifth major snowfall, and winter was still young.
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sat at his wide oaken desk and gazed out the window over the expansive Hogwarts grounds and out towards the mountainous horizon. Below his window, located in one of Hogwarts many spires, he could see the geometric courtyards of the castle, and see, as black figures on the white now, the students and teachers bustling from class to class.
Below, in the main courtyard, the unmistakable figure of Hagrid could be seen piling wood for a bonfire. He hefted tree trunks that would have crushed an ordinary man as if they were sticks. No doubt in the Great Hall, in every classroom and common room, the braziers and fireplaces where red with coals, logs, and flames. Armchairs were pulled close to the fireplace, wool blankets pulled up under chins, steaming mugs of cocoa and tea drained again and again.
But not for him. Dumbledore sat alone in his study, his fireplace grey and gold. His window was open, and the bitterly cold winds pulled at his long wispy hair.
I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
On days such as this, Dumbledore reflected. Many triumphs, but so many more regrets. For every chairmanship, for every medal and certificate, there were people he could have saved, evil he could have fought, roads untaken. There was so much good he could have done. The deaths of the Potters, the Prewetts, the torture of the Longbottoms, all weighed down upon him like iron weights.
He turned to his massive desk. With his long fingers he pulled from hs robe a long, thin, iron key, which he fitted to the topmost drawer of his desk. Sighing deeply, he opened the drawer, and withdrew a small photograph, well worn by time and use. He looked at it sadly.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
In it were two young men. It had not been treated with a potion to make the figures move, so the two were frozen forever in that moment, caught for eternity, just as they were. The tones of grey in the old black and white photo had faded, so that they were just distinguishable. One, with blond hair, sat against a stone garden wall, reading a book. The other, with darker auburn hair, sat near him, looking at him with a mixture of friendship, admiration, and something more.
Don't talk of love,
Well, I've heard the word before.
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
No, thought the old wizard, as he moved to put the picture away. Now is not the time… But his hands gradually stopped moving, and he let the picture rest on his desk. Slow tears fell slowly down his withered cheeks. His brilliant blue eyes grew sad, and his breath came softly.
"Gellert", he murmured, "Why… Why did you…" But it was too painful to continue. These were old wounds, not properly healed. To disturb them would bring a torrent of emotion, much of it painful. A river too long dammed up.
He tried again, "Gellert… You were… so good, so kind, so beautiful…and you could have done so much. We could have done so much…" And he fell silent once more.
No, he thought sadly, the questions of fifty years ago will remain questions. I have no place to disturb the fog of time…
I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I have spent fifty years here, reading, writing, studying, winning awards, and Gellert languishes at the top of Nurmengard, alone and forsaken by all. Including me. Why? Why did I abandon him? Because it was easy. Easy to let the past die, to seal myself off with books and papers and diagrams. That was easy.
Topmost on his desk was a letter, addressed to Marcus Sejanus Flint, officially notifying him of his trial status. It was the last thing needed to prosecute the boy. If, however, Dumbledore did not sign and send this letter, all would go as Fudge had said, the matter, except by a few, would be forgotten, Fudge would be appeased, as would the Daily Prophet, and one thousand and one headaches for the old wizard would be avoided. For a moment, he saw himself seizing the parchment and incinerating it with a wave of his wand. Let it all go.
But as he saw the parchment burn, he saw Percy's battered face in the blaze, joined by Oliver's anguish and worry. The crackle of the flames was replaced with Flint's deathly call of "Crucio". The smell of the smoke was replaced by the smell of blood, rank water, and piss which had surrounded the bathroom where Percy was found. The emerald-green ink, which formed the finely written words, reformed itself into the block-letter burns on Percy's forehead. And above all, the floating specter of Gellert, his face pensive as it was in the picture, as it had been that afternoon.
No! In a sudden frenzy, the old man seized the parchment, and, grabbing a quill, signed his name so furiously he spattered ink on his robe, glasses, and face. After folding the letter and putting it an envelope, he sent it down to the Slytherin Common Room to await Marcus.
He walked to the window, and gazed out at the white panorama.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
After a few minutes, he returned to his desk, took another piece of parchment, and began to write.
Dear Gellert…
And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.