Dumbledore remained an enigma to me. At times he seemed an eccentric headmaster, a man no more burdened than you or I. But there were moments, at the strangest of times, during the most innocent of conversations, that he seemed something more. In those moments, his eyes were not those of a simple headmaster.
As a retired army field doctor, I remember seeing such eyes. During my stint in Afghanistan, some soldiers would come to me with battle-high minds, dragging the lifeless body of companions. To a doctor, they thought, to a doctor and all's well.
When it finally sank in, and they realized another friend was gone, they would sometimes blame themselves. The knowledge that their best was not enough, and perhaps would never be, haunted them. Those soldiers had the eyes of Albus Dumbledore.
-Excerpt from A Study in Magic, by John Watson, MD
-oOo-
It received high praise in Witches Monthly magazine. In their bi-annual column, "Top Ten Romance Novels for Cold Nights", it was hailed as a triumph of modern fiction. A worn copy of the work in question, Warm Wind Through the Wizard's Hair, lay on Albus Dumbledore's desk.
"Ridiculous," he muttered, questioning (not for the first time) why he continued to read such tripe. Authors just didn't write romance like they used to.
At least this time the antagonist, Count Gregory, had character. The Count used his wits and wiles to sweep women off their feet. Dashingly debonair, he teasingly toyed with emotions, masterfully misleading innocent beauties. His bold sense of fashion rounded off a rather good character.
Dumbledore didn't have to approve of, but he could certainly respect any man who pulled off a cape.
Of course, in the end, all of Count Gregory's carefully crafted plans had to come crashing down. Brought low, as usual, by the protagonist's straightforward, stubborn efforts. And this was naturally regarded as a Good Thing. Which it was, to certain people. But how did poor Gregory feel about it? No one, including the author, seemed to care.
Dumbledore solemnly raised a lemon drop in silent toast to the fictitious Count. He popped the sweet into his mouth and reluctantly turned his attention to more practical matters.
Most of these matters centered on the Boy Who Lived.
Many considered the old headmaster mysterious and infallible, but Dumbledore knew better. He certainly cultured the "mysterious" aspect, but held no delusions of infallibility. He just hid his failures better than most. The trick was how to minimize a mistake's effect, and reduce it to the point where no one noticed it ever even happened.
Old tricks aside, Dumbledore knew he was walking a fine line with the Boy Who Lived. The line was thin when he started, and now he approached the proverbial knive's edge. Harry was shockingly mature, far more than he dared have hoped. That part of the plan seemed to have gone off perfectly, and now the next phase was ready.
Except for one problem.
Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose, and did not resist as his thoughts drifted back to the night it all began.
When Severus Snape had entered the headmaster's office that evening, Albus expected many things. He expected misinformation, outright lies, and poorly concealed threats. He had not expected a confession.
Snape was a Death Eater. This in itself was no great secret. Most everyone expected it (even if they couldn't prove it). The dark potions prodigy fit the role very well, perhaps to the point of cliché. An angry, talented man, with more than a passing interest in the Dark Arts. And yet there he stood, bearing terrible news, and begging for the headmaster's help.
Voldemort knew the prophecy, and he had chosen the Potters.
A simple revelation, but one that forced Dumbledore to feel his many years like a mountain on his back. The prophecy had been his closest guarded secret. A remarkable prophecy made by an otherwise unremarkable seer, revealing threads of the future's fabric.
Only two families matched the prophetic criteria: the ancient houses of Longbottom and Potter. Each family had a newborns, and the prophecy foretold one of these babes would someday end the Dark Lord, or be destroyed in turn.
Dumbledore had known the prophecy for some time, and he had been sure the Longbottom babe would someday fulfill it's words. All evidence pointed in that direction.
Throughout the war, Voldemort preached the superiority of Purebloods. Purebloods like the Longbottoms. Why should the Dark Lord deign to pay Harry Potter any attention? A child tainted with the muggle blood of his mother could surely pose no threat in the eyes of that blood-supremist. It was incomprehensible that Voldemort would consider an inferior half-blood capable of vanquishing a wizard such as he.
Naturally, against everything Dumbledore had prepared for, Voldemort targeted Harry Potter.
-oOo-
- October 31, 1981, Godric's Hollow-
Dumbledore could not remember the last time he'd had to actually run. He preferred to apparate. Or, baring that, a stately walk.
Right now, he was sprinting. Up the front lawn, through the shattered front door, and into the bedroom of Lily and James Potter.
Within was a grisly sight, one the old wizard would remember in perfect detail for decades to come. He took in the scene, and time seemed to slow. On the floor lay Lily and James, crumpled and lifeless. Next to them was the small, still-breathing body of Harry Potter.
At the center of carnage was a man, if monsters could be considered men. He surveyed his surroundings with a satisfied gaze. The same eye an artist might give a masterpiece. Voldemort heard the headmaster enter, but did not turn. At the moment, Voldemort had eyes only for Harry Potter.
"It ends tonight, Tom," said Dumbledore. His words were flat. Lifeless.
Voldemort turned, and his eyes danced with merry madness. Within that gaze burned a fire, a wild blaze that wanted to consume everything it saw. Albus could see it reaching out for him, trying to pull him in and burn him like so many before.
"Wrong as always, headmaster. Tonight, it begins."
The Dark Lord started to turn again towards Harry, but paused. Albus had drawn his wand and leveled it one inch above a madman's heart.
"You know the prophecy," sneered Voldemort, "Don't pretend you have the 'power to vanquish the Dark Lord'. As if you ever had the stomach to finish things." Voldemort spread his arms wide. "Is this where you start preaching? Go ahead, for old time's sake. Tell me how it's not too late to turn back."
The Headmaster flicked his wand. Behind Voldemort, just to the left of his head, a charred hole was blown from the wall.
The Dark Lord sighed and lowered his hands. "Such power. And still such weakness." He turned and pointed his wand at the still form of Harry Potter.
"Avada Kedavra."
A moment passed, then another. Voldemort slowly turned, and surprise was etched on his face.
Dumbledore watched with arm extended, wand tip still glowing green, as the Dark Lord sank to the floor, dead.
Later he would forgive himself. He would tell himself it was for the best, for the greater good. But right then, surrounded by death, he only felt sick.
He crossed the room and gathered Harry Potter into his arms. A whispered incendio set the room afire.
With a thunderous crack, the two were gone without a trace.
-oOo-
Very few entered the Forbidden Forest for a reason. It was an isolated place, drenched in wild magic, barely fit for the beasts who called it home. More often than not, those wizards who entered met swift and sticky ends.
Albus loved the forest. He reveled in the magic and isolation. It was where he went to think.
He appeared in a quiet clearing, causing various small woodland creatures to scurry away in fright. He set Harry down into a hastily conjured picnic basket and began to pace, casting wards as he walked.
The prophecy was clear. It seemed Harry Potter, not the Longbottom boy, was the key to Voldemort's ultimate defeat. Th Dark Lord may be gone for now, but Dumbledore did not for a moment doubt his return. He would be back. Dumbledore had bought time, not victory.
His thoughts piled up, and Albus paced faster.
Everything came back to the prophecy. It was known by more people than he liked. He'd told McGonagall, and if Snape knew, it was no stretch to assume some Death Eaters did as well. No, the prophecy could not repressed, but…
The headmaster felt an idea start to form. Yes...maybe he bought more than time. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could buy peace as well. If he could convince everyone the Dark Lord was gone forever, the Death Eaters would divide and fall. That could be a crippling blow for Voldemort's eventual return, and could give Dumbledore the means and time to amass connections, defenses, and power.
The prophecy's fulfillment was a simple thing to fake. How did that line go?
"And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal."
Dumbledore touched his wand tip to the sleeping infant's forehead. "Forgive me for this, Harry."
-oOo-
Minerva McGonagall was grading essays when Albus' patronus landed on her desk. The transparent silver phoenix opened its beak, the headmaster's voice came forth. "My office. New war developments."
McGonagall made her way to the headmaster's office and readied her nerves for the worst of news. Had another family disappeared? Another student taken the Dark Mark?
Soon she was outside Dumbledore's office. She squared her shoulders and opened the door. The Headmaster sat behind his desk. He wore a melancholy smile, and beside him sat a large picnic basket.
"News?" she asked.
For the first time in a very long while, McGonagall could see a shimmer of the headmaster's trademark twinkling eyes. "Some bad news, I'm afraid. But good news, too."
McGonagall stood silently. It had been some time since she'd heard any good news.
"Lily and James...they're gone."
McGonagall paled. "How?"
"Voldemort."
McGonagall flinched at the name, but pressed on with wet eyes. "And Harry?"
Dumbledore nodded his head toward the open picnic basket.
She leaned forward with a breath of relief, and peered into the basket. With a gasp, her hand reached out and stopped just short of the child within.
Harry Potter slept peacefully, but on his forehead, like a jagged lightning bolt, was a angry red scar.
"What happened to him?" asked McGonagall.
"We can only guess, but I found three corpses inside the Potter's house. Lily, James…and Voldemort."
McGonagall sank into a chair. "Dead? Voldemort?"
"Yes. Harry was the only survivor." Dumbledore leaned back, tapping his fingertips together. "It's not an ordinary scar. Such marks only come from curses of...considerable darkness. For whatever reason, one I cannot begin to fathom, it seems whatever curse Voldemort cast on Harry rebounded with fatal results."
McGonagall gripped the armrests, wearing a dazed expression. "Dead?"
Dumbledore gave a small smile. "Yes, Voldemort is dead and the prophecy has been fulfilled. But this is not the end…Minerva?"
McGonagall shook her head and fixed clear eyes on the headmaster.
"Harry needs to go underground," said Dumbledore, "No half-hearted attempts. We need to hide him in the muggle world."
"But surely-"
Dumbledore raised a hand, stalling any objections. "It must be done. Too many know the prophecy. Too many will guess how Voldemort died. And they will seek revenge."
"But with muggles-"
"Is the very last place you'd expect to find Harry Potter. Trust me on this, Minerva."
A tense second passed when headmaster and professor locked eyes. Dumbledore watched in relief as her posture relaxed.
McGonagall crossed her arms. "I suppose you have someone in mind?"
"I am leaning towards a candidate, yes."
An innocent statement, but one that held hidden troves. Long had Dumbledore made plans in the event the prophecy being leaked. Tactics under contingencies supported with backup plans. They had been in place for some time. Now one of those many plans could be custom-tailored for Harry Potter.
Beyond Dumbledore, not many knew of Lily Potter's muggle relatives. If Albus could arrange for the last will and testament of Lily and James to be...misplaced, then the Dursley's stood to inherit Harry's guardianship. Dumbledore was sure they were very nice muggles. With loving relatives, the boy would no doubt enjoy a simple, idyllic childhood.
It was regrettable that the headmaster could never allow it.
He wished things could be different, but the prophecy could not be denied. It was writ in the very fabric of magic. One day the destruction of Lord Voldemort would rest solely on Harry Potter's shoulders. Kill or be killed, as it were. To survive what was to come, the boy would have to make sacrifices.
The first sacrifice would be made for him, right now.
Dumbledore needed an individual of unique disposition. Someone cold. Brutal. Intelligent. A guardian who would push the boy leagues farther than some loving family.
Countless research and surveillance had yielded a single man who met these exacting criteria, at least within England, and his name was Sherlock Holmes.
The rewards would be substantial, Dumbledore was sure. Even so, for a moment the headmaster felt something inside, gentle and warm. It asked if a softer path might be taken.
Unbidden, the faces of Lily and James rose in his mind, followed by countless others whom the war had claimed. Then he heard Voldemort's words, uttered what seemed a lifetime ago.
"Such power, and still such weakness."
Albus Dumbledore felt the warm, gentle something harden to glass.