Of Roses and Thorns

Chapter Four

Disclaimer: I disclaim.

September 30, 1943

Albus Dumbledore was a wise man. Naturally he refrained from saying so aloud (he was Albus Dumbledore for Merlin's sake and people liked a humble man), but it often pleased him to roam the darkened and silent halls of Hogwarts pondering his own wisdom. He often saw himself as a puppeteer and the world was his stage. It was his burden. He sighed sadly as he ascended the stairs to the fourth floor. Wisdom like his only came from years and years of mistakes. Was that really such a good thing then, if the only way to gain the wisdom he had was to learn it all the hard way? Albus' losses, his heartbreak, and all that had been destroyed in his life had taught him plenty. It was this that often caused him to wonder how truly wonderful his life could be if only he were more naive or ignorant. Oh Gellert, he thought. Upset with the sudden turn his thoughts took, Albus conjured a blackboard mid-step; every stray thought in his head was transcribed onto its surface before he promptly erased them all. He smiled to himself, his mind cleared.

Thoroughly enjoying the peace brought to him upon the clearing of his mind, Albus found himself jumping a foot into the air when a cacophony of slams, clangs, and crashes sounded ahead of him.

He rushed up the rest of the staircase, ignoring the protests of pain made by the hip Gellert had very nearly destroyed the last time they had seen each other. Albus sighed in annoyance at his mind's inappropriate timing. Surely there was a time and a place to think about Gellert. At the sight of the scene before him, Albus decided that this was not it. There, amidst fallen suits of armor, swords, and a tacky decorative tapestry that once hung on the wall, was a bleeding and unconscious young woman.

Albus turned to the whispering portraits behind him. "Good evening, ladies. Would you mind telling me from where this girl came?" The portrait of affluent witches—three of them, wearing the lavish wizarding fashion of the late 1800s—continued whispering to themselves before one of them broke away from the huddle to speak with him.

"We cannot tell you much, we're afraid. We were asleep, you see, when that common wench woke us with her landing among the armor."

"She fell from somewhere?" His eyes immediately went up to the ceiling, searching for a hole or opening of some sort.

The painted lady shook her dainty head. "Oh no, it was more as if she were thrown." She pointed to the left where, true to her word, it appeared that the mysterious girl had been thrown by a large hand and had encountered several suits of armor before coming to a final stop.

"Thank you." Albus bowed his head in gratitude at the painting before turning his attention back to the girl. Ignoring her strange attire and careful to not injure her further, Albus levitated the girl with a flick of his wand and turned towards his office. "Let's get you figured out, shall we?"

As Albus walked slowly through the dim halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with a heavily injured girl levitating alongside him, his thoughts strayed back to Gellert Grindelwald.

May 2, 1998

Harry Potter wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and stay there, safely ensconced inside the late Albus Dumbledore's office. What he didn't want was this responsibility he felt to protect the world. He allowed himself to cry some.

Harry wanted to punch something. Magic was supposed to be just that: magical. He didn't want to have to take down a mad tyrant on a quest for power, he didn't want people dying, and he certainly didn't want this war. All he wanted was to sit in the Great Hall, eat a treacle tart, maybe have some pudding, perhaps start a food fight like he saw once in a muggle movie when his uncle, aunt, and cousin weren't home. Or maybe he wanted to go for a fly on his broom. Perhaps he'd challenge Ron to a game of chess. He'd lose of course; Ron was brilliant at chess, a skill Harry often thanked Merlin he possessed as it was that very eye for strategy that had saved their lives in their first year. Harry cried some more, feeling all too young to be looking death in the eye.

Hagrid taking him away all those years ago had been his saving grace. Finally, after years of abuse and neglect and resentment, he was special, magical, and most importantly, he was loved. His horrible family's hatred couldn't touch him-not then and not anymore. Leaving with Hagrid had been so liberating; he'd never felt such exhilaration. Though he hadn't known Hagrid long at that point, the half-giant had made him feel valued. For the first time in his life, someone loved him. Harry had gathered his few belongings, plunged headfirst into the world of magic, and never once looked back.

Soon, it wasn't just Hagrid that loved him, but Hermione and Ron too. Then Sirius loved him and Dumbledore and McGonagall. The Weasleys loved him and Lupin did and then Ginny—strong, beautiful Ginny—loved him. His chest gave a little twist. All these people who loved him and were loved by him were in danger.

And all because of him.

He couldn't really understand why he was curled up on the floor of the Headmaster's office, but he understood that he was mourning. It was as if he couldn't really decide what he was mourning. Perhaps it was Snape's life he was mourning. He was filled with this sadness. It was almost suffocating.

"Harry, my boy, come and sit."

Albus Dumbledore's voice pulled Harry out of his thoughts and, obediently, Harry stood and sat in the chair facing Dumblefore's portrait.

Dumbledore's painted face smiled warmly at him. Even as a painting, his eyes twinkled. Harry felt defeated. "Hullo, Professor." He greeted hoarsely.

"What is the matter?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry sighed. "Everything, sir. Snape's life is the matter. The war is the matter. People living and people dying and people fighting to decide who does or doesn't is the matter." He pulled his glasses off and wiped them on his filthy shirt. When was the last time he had been clean? Judging by the smears on his glasses, it had been far too long.

Dumbledore nodded in understanding. "You know everything now."

Their eyes met and Harry nodded. "Neither can live while the other survives. It makes perfect sense, but not in the way I thought it would." Dumbledore nodded proudly. "I'm going to die tonight, Professor."

The dead man smiled serenely at him. "You always have a choice, my boy. Do not forget that." Dumbledore gave a small sigh and smiled at him. Harry thought the man looked brave. "One thing I've learned in my life is that one never truly lives for himself. There are people you love to protect, to please, to cherish; there are enemies to defeat and thwart; and there are innocent lives to defend. You have always been so brave, Harry. You are made up of the greatest traits of your parents. They are so proud of you, never doubt this fact."

Harry could barely refrain from screaming at the portrait. But he knew it would not do to scream at a painting. "But it's all for nothing, isn't it? Their deaths? My mother's sacrifice? I'm going to willingly die tonight."

"You know deep in your heart that this is something you are choosing because you are a noble man, you are a good man, and you care far more about this magical world that has both loved and then hated you than to truly abandon it." Dumbledore smiled. "We all have made our own sacrifices and it has all been for the greater good, Harry. It is unfair and cruel to ask this of you, but it has to be. I am truly sorry for everything that has happened, for everything that will happen, and for all that I have failed you."

"I suppose-" Harry's voice cracked as emotion nearly got the best of him. Dumbledore was right of course; he was always right. Harry loved the world that had saved him, that had taken him in and had given him such happiness. He would give anything for the Wizarding world, even if it meant that he had to give his life. In that instant, he thought of Snape's life-long sacrifices, of Dumbledore's death, of his parents and his mother's love, of Ron and Hermione, and he knew. He cleared his throat. "I suppose it's time to finally meet my parents then, Professor."

Dumbledore gave him a watery smile. "I am so proud of you, my boy. You are truly a better man than I have ever been."

Harry Potter stood, ran a tired hand through his messy hair, and gave him a nod. "Goodbye, Professor." He turned and headed for the door.

Albus Dumbledore's portrait stared at the space his protégé had occupied only moments before. "I will see you soon, Harry Potter."

September 30, 1943

Albus Dumbledore assessed the unconscious girl lying on a bed he had transfigured from a chair. He had checked her earlier for any major injuries, but had found no recent ones aside from the head injury she received upon landing. He had quelled the bleeding and had healed it to the best of his ability, but he could not escape the niggling feeling that there was something he was overlooking. The girl had a number of old injuries that were rather sloppily healed, but nothing so awful it would affect the rest of her life. So why did he feel so uneasy?

Shaking off his paranoia, he twirled his wand in his fingers, deciding to find out who this girl was and where she came from. He should wake her and ask, but there were less complications in exploring her mind as she recuperated. There was no harm in that, was there? His wand aimed at the space between her eyes, Albus entered her mind.

The thing with the mind was that it typically lacked any form of tangible organization. In fact, the mind couldn't even begin to understand its own complexity. In order to function, thoughts, ideas, feelings, and memories were organized in a way the conscious mind could understand. For example, he once entered the mind of a witch whose mind was set up to resemble Diagon Alley. He had a field day in her mind, entering the various shops and enjoying the memories and thoughts stored within each. Naturally her most precious of thoughts were squirreled away in her mind's Gringott's, which he found he was unable to enter.

This young woman's mind, to his delight, was a library. There was an innumerable amount of books lining the shelves. He was dying to explore what memories she stored in the Restricted Section of her mind's library, but refrained from doing so. After all, he had a purpose here. Instead, he approached a middle shelf at random. He pulled out a book and examined the cover. Hogwarts, A History, it read. Opening the book and flipping through the pages revealed that it was indeed an accurate copy of one of his favorite books. He replaced it on the shelf and pulled out another book. Upon opening, he watched as a memory played itself out on the otherwise blank page. In it were a red headed boy and a black haired boy were playing a rather riveting game of Wizard's Chess in the Gryffindor common room. Without a word, the red headed boy's Red Queen took a White Knight and his opponent groaned in dismay. He turned his green eyes towards Albus and shook his head sadly. "There's no winning against him, Hermione." Albus shut the book and placed it back gently on the shelf.

The girl's name was Hermione and judging by the memory he had seen, she was a Gryffindor. But he didn't recall ever seeing her or her two chess playing friends. Being deputy headmaster, he prized himself on being on familiar terms with all of Hogwarts' students. Frowning, he took a book from the highest shelf. The memory this book showed him nearly floored him. There he was, obscenely ancient and he was Headmaster! "Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak!" His older-self declared proudly. The attention of the memory then left the sight of the older Albus and turned instead to the assortment of food on the table. Dazed, Albus shut the book and shakily returned it. He didn't know which was more bizarre: the sight of his older self or the meaningless string of words he had uttered to hundreds of students. Does he go mad in the future? Does all his wisdom turn on him and drive him off his rocker? Abus shivered.

He quickly pulled out of her mind and stared at the poor girl before him. Somehow she had managed to travel back in time. It was the only logical explanation for her strange clothes and the contents of her memories. He was floored. Albus was a great wizard, this he knew, but even he had not managed to escape the confines of time. Yet this young woman had managed to cross vast oceans of time intact. He needed answers and, knowing it would be far more simpler to ask the girl herself of her circumstances than to comb her mind, he trained his wand on her yet again. "Rennervate!"

Hermione's eyes shot open and she took a gasping breath. She sat up quickly and Albus noted smugly that she displayed no dizziness or other ill effects from her head injury. He was certainly a very capable healer. Perhaps he might consider applying to St. Mungo's. Before he could really expand on this thought or begin wondering who he would use as a reference for his Healer application, he noticed her rather dazed and confused expression. She looked around his rather small-ish office before her gaze landed on him. He noticed that she did not relax. In fact, she looked like she was prepared to run at any moment.

"Where am I?" She asked him, her tone laced with fear. Albus wondered at that; if she had known him from the future, then surely she'd recognize him! Though he had to admit that, at the young age of 62, she couldn't possibly believe he could be the same old geezer from her memories. Albus preened a little and hoped she wouldn't notice.

Albus smiled kindly at her. "My dear, you are in my office in Hogwarts. You suffered from a terrible fall, but you'll be alright. I've healed all of your injuries."

She looked down at her body before looking at him again. "Oh. Thank you, sir." She looked around the room, still obviously confused. There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes at the mention of Hogwarts, but not much else.

"Now, could you please tell me how you came to be here?" He stepped closer, eager to an answer. "What spell did you use? Did you somehow manage to Apparate?"

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. "You can't Apparate within Hogwarts."

Albus smiled, recalling her love of Hogwarts, A History. He was going to get along splendidly with this young woman. "Ah, yes. So a spell then?"

"Spell?"

"Yes, my dear. I am aware that you are not from here, but what I am not aware of is what method you used to travel to this time and why."

She shook her head. "Travel? I...don't-" She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I…I don't know what you're talking about."

Apprehension suddenly filled his mind as he stared at the distressed girl before him. "My dear, do you remember anything?"

Horror was evident in her eyes as she opened her mouth and said, "No…not a thing."

A/N: As far as this story is concerned, time-turners have yet to be developed by the Ministry or if they have, they cannot travel further back than a few hours. Also, I'm so sorry this took so long to get out! It's been a crazy month on my end, but I promise my updates will become more regular once the semester's over (just one more week!). The hops between the different times can get a little confusing, especially with this rather Dumbledore-centric chapter, but each perspective and the events that take place in both times are crucial to the story.

As always, thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, and favorited this story!