It's finally here! Sure took me long enough...
Thanks to all my reviewers!
Happy Halloween to everyone (a little late, but I tried) and good luck to any NaNoWriMos out there!
Disclaimer: JKRowling owns it all; I'm just playing with the characters.
Happy Halloween!
The days went by with little of importance happening—meetings were held, students were observed, and the Order was advised—but no problems had arisen, no fights had been instigated, Grindlewald had made no obvious moves, and, happily, no Death Eater raids had occurred. Even the Marauders had been strangely quiet, though Albus did not expect their tranquility to last for long.
A low stomach growl punctuated the "Hail the Hippogriffs" song that he was listening to, and he smiled to himself. Time for supper, he supposed.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a soft but firm knock on the door sounded.
"Come in," he called, smiling—it was such fun to have visitors! It was a shame no one visited more often, or came just to chat...
The door opened to reveal Miss Ginny Weasley—Grindlewald's follower, friend, and, rumor has it, girlfriend.
Oh yes, Albus was thrilled to speak to her.
"Miss Weasley," he greeted pleasantly, allowing a carefully measured hint of surprise to seep into his voice, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
She hesitated—that was significant, though Albus pretended not to notice her pause—and drew a shaky breath, as if she has no idea what she has gotten herself into, and only knows it is way over her head.
Then she met his gaze with a anticipatory, grinning spark in her eyes and asked, "Do you want to see my socks?"
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When it boiled down to specifics, Albus never was one to lie to himself, so he didn't bother to pretend that Miss Weasley had truly ventured to his office just to chat. No, she could only be a distraction meant, no doubt, to keep him occupied and out of the way while Gellert and company did as they pleased....
But obvious enough that Dumbledore was meant to know immediately that she was there to misdirect him.
A light, gentle brush of legilimency informed him of their prank and its general plan—he tried not to pry, largely because he did not want to spoil the show for himself when he watched the occurrence in his Penseive later in the evening—and, as the Marauders had been entirely too quiet recently, he was inclined to believe that it was, in all probability, just a prank.
Just to be safe, however, he subtly prodded one of his many silver knickknacks into life to verify that among the crowds of the Great Hall, there was a Harry James Potter, a Hermione Jane Granger, and a Ronald Bilius Weasley, and commissioned all but a couple of the portraits in his office to patrol the school and spread the word to stay alert.
Of course, the fact that the Elder Wand had disappeared, replaced with a spare bit of parchment that promised its speedy return and was signed by the Marauders helped to reassure him.
So he and Miss Weasley had a perfectly lovely conversation, and her socks were simply delightful—the left one depicted some of Fillibuster's fireworks and their magnificent explosions, while the right one doubled as a wireless radio. Among many other things, they discussed the perpetually bothersome question of where all the missing socks go, house elf rights, the difficulty of learning Mermish, and why the Great Hall offers pumpkin juice on a daily basis but never orange juice.
Long before he and Miss Weasley had exhausted their list of things to talk about, the portrait of the short, balding Headmaster Ferendum strolled breezily into the room, gave Albus a discrete salute, crossed into his own picture, and promptly fell asleep in his chair. About half of the other former headmasters followed close behind, similarly settling into their own armchairs.
Dumbledore rose to his feet and said, "Well, Miss Weasley, as delightful as this chat has been, I am quite famished. Won't you accompany me to dinner?"
"No!" She burst out, then blushed, "That is to say, not yet, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell me all about, um, your work in Alchemy. With Nicholas Flemel. I mean, I thought Alchemy was all about the Philosopher's Stone, but of course, he'd made that centuries before you started working with him."
She stared at him, wide eyed and holding her breath as she waited for an answer, but Albus was hungry.
"No, no, I'll tell you all about it on the way, but we really ought to be going to dinner."
So he told her about Alchemy all the way down to the Great Hall and answered her questions. Taking pity on her, he paused as casually as possible outside the Great Hall doors until a portrait signaled that the prank was over, upon which he pushed open the doors and said, "Minerva, have you seen my wand—Oh! Dear me, I seem to have missed quite a show. I'd so like to have seen it, too..."
He took in the gasps, shocked looks, and even applause, absorbed the site of two figures—both of whom looked exactly like him—as they collapsed in fresh, joyful bouts of laughter, and smiled lightly Minerva McGonogal's flustered expression.
Then he shrugged as nonchalantly as he dared and took his seat at the head table.
He helped himself to large servings of just about everything, even as all the professors babbled around him about the prank: the impertinence, the genius, the skill, the hilarity.
"I've never seen such remarkable things done with a wand." Zoe Clarence, the astronomy professor, took off her ruby-colored glasses and polished them idly before settling them back on her nose. She shook her head as if musing to herself. "I can't even define whether it was Transfiguration, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, or some obscure branch of study that I've never heard of before."
Janelle Mandlebrook nodded her head with youthful vigor that Albus could only envy. "If only you'd seen it, headmaster, even you would have been impressed, I'm sure."
Albus raised his goblet, as if in a toast, before saying, "It sounds as if it were an enjoyable and enlightening performance, certainly. Good enough to view in a penseive later this evening, at any rate, if any of you are willing to share your memories of the event."
Janelle Mandlebrook agreed at once; Minerva McGonagall nodded primly, as if to make amends for the flush of adrenaline that still flooded her cheeks after all the drama; Rubeus Hargid offered his own memories generously and loudly from down the table.
Albus thanked them, then tried in vain to steer the conversation away from the prank, so that he could enjoy it properly in the penseive.
"One of the young ladies—Miss Ginny Weasley—showed me the most enchanting socks this evening..."
"Headmaster, please, this is important!" Minerva McGonagall leveled him with a stern look. "Harry Potter and Ronald Weas—"
Would it be so terribly impolite to submerge one's head in the pudding? Would it block out the words?
It probably wouldn't be permissible, but Albus sure wished he could.
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Nearly half an hour later, Albus made his graceful excuses and requested that Minerva McGonagall join him in his office. He took one last look at the crowd. The students' eyes trailed after him, no doubt gaging his expression for any sign of what would happen next: Would the pranksters be punished? they seemed to wonder, Or would the headmaster find the prank as wonderful and amusing as the students did?
Amidst all the students, his eyes met those of Grindlewald's. A small smile—not quite a smirk, but not innocent, either—was playing on the former dark lord's lips, making him look far younger and more mischievous than Albus thought natural, given that his current age was well over one hundred.
Peering closer, Albus might have even guessed that the smile was an offering of friendship, a peace token, and a secret message; but then he remembered who he was dealing with and reminded himself not to let his emotions cloud his judgment.
Albus tore his eyes away and left the Great Hall.
They walked in silence to his office, and although Minerva McGonagall's stiff shoulders and tight lips told him that there was something she wanted to say, she held her peace until they were inside his office and away from the danger of prying ears.
"Headmaster," she said the moment the door was closed behind them, "These children are powerful, extremely powerful, and I confess that I am not convinced the other students are safe with them around. I—" She faltered when Albus peered at her over his glasses, though he had not meant to appear anything less than curious. He supposed that his impatience was seeping through into his expression, so he smiled encouragingly and strolled over to sit at his desk before speaking.
"Have you noticed any worrying behavior?"
She hesitated, but shook her head. "Other than a few odd comments in class and a few rumors floating around, their behavior is no more worrying than that of any other student. All the same, their knowledge and sheer power—Well, I suppose you'd best see it for yourself."
Albus simply nodded and said, "Perhaps that would be best," though in reality he was struggling not to celebrate. As quickly as he thought was reasonable, he crossed the room and flicked his wrist in the general direction of his cabinet.
Minerva McGonagall added her memories of the event to his Penseive; he dismissed her and let himself fall into the swirling mist.
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Albus watched idly, patiently, as an all-too-familiar scene played out before him. Students were, as per usual, casting several protection charms to shield them from any unwanted spells—for the past six years, all of the students had quickly learned that the Marauders' needed shielding against. However, most students cast the spells half-heartedly, as it seemed that they were quite partial to the idea of an entertaining prank, whether they were the victim or not.
Before long, his doppleganger at the head table carefully, measuredly, laid down his fork and rose to his feet, his eyes trained on the great oak doors.
"It would seem," he said, his voice was plenty loud, but nonetheless mild and gentle, and it rose above the other voices in the hall, "that we have a visitor."
Albus smiled lightly to himself—that was the impostor's first mistake, though it was clear that none of the spectators had picked up on it. If there was indeed an unannounced visitor, than what good would it do to stare at the doors and raise awareness? Very, very few occasions called for an unannounced social visit, and in almost every other circumstance it would be far more prudent to meet out in the entrance hall. The visitor could be a ministry official coming with information meant only for Albus's ears, an Order member, or anyone else with pressing news that he ought to have heard alone. To be seen by the students could cause a panic, compromise their cover, or even put the children in danger. Or the visitor could have been a Death Eater, Voldemort, or any other threat, in which case it was best to go out to meet them rather than put the students in harm's way.
But instead, the fraud just stood there and waited.
The doors blew open as soon as the fake Dumbledore had finished speaking, and there were gasps and shrieks and dropped jaws as a second Dumbledore, this one adorned in greenish blue robes, entered—but his glasses were wrong, perched too far down on his broken nose.
"And you would be right," the newcomer said, and immediately heads swiveled from one to another.
"You are, I presume, here for a prank?" the original impostor asked, his eyes twinkling happily, much like Albus's own often did. The rendition was uncanny.
"A prank, you say?" the Dumbledore with funny glasses repeated as he glanced around the room. "Yes, I'd thought you were such, though I do thank you for confirming it."
"Can I safely assume it was the doing of the Marauders?"
The Dumbledore at the door nodded slowly, watching him curiously over his ill-positioned half-moon spectacles. "They do look rather conspicuously celebratory over there, don't they?"
The Marauders' celebration was rather hard to miss, to tell the truth, standing on tables and bowing as they were. It was clever, Albus mused, the way that they immediately reassured the crowd that this was a prank and not a threat—indeed, as soon as it was clear there was no danger, several of the teachers appeared to be as caught up in it as the students.
One teacher, however, was decidedly not amused.
"Enough of this! Which one of you is the real headmaster?"
Albus had to admire Minerva McGonagall's brisk, no-nonsense tone, so famed by the students, even as he chortled—did she honestly expect them to give in so easily?
"Why, my dear Minerva," the first Dumbledore, the one in the purple robes, said, sounding surprised as he voiced Albus's own thoughts, "I think the prank is you must figure out which of us is the real one, because naturally we would both reply that we are."
Minerva McGonagall's was glare was, most certainly, impressive. "Very well," she said, "That is easily fixed. Hand me your wands."
Clever, very clever, on Minerva McGonagall's part, to immediately check the wand—as no other wand could compare to the Elder, the Deathstick, which, although she did not know the true nature of his wand, was certainly unique enough to be identifiable.
But, of course, the pranksters were one step ahead of her, and Albus watched in amusement as she examined both of their wands and found, much to her fury, that both were exact copies of one another. Peering over her shoulder, he, too, examined the wands and was impressed with the likeness.
All the same, he could not help but wonder if it was significant that one of them looked to have been polished quite recently, whereas the other seemed to have come in contact with a fair amount of dirt, grime, and fingers since its last cleaning.
"But that's not possible!" She exclaimed.
"And yet, it apparently is," funny-glasses Dumbledore smiled genially, turning to his clone. "You visited Gregorovitch, I take it?"
From that one word—one name—a wave of frustration, of fury, and of utter helplessness flew over Albus, and, unable to stop himself—to control himself, to regulate the rush of emotion—he lashed out, childishly intending to slam his hand on the surface of the nearest table. But it was a memory, so of course nothing happened, and the motion was wasted, the anger unabated.
Grindlewald knew.... Grindlewald knew that Albus was aware of his identity, knew and was still confident that he held all the cards.
And in truth, he did. There was nothing Albus could do, no way to confront him, no basis for expelling him, no legal grounds for any action, preventative or otherwise. And there was so much that Albus did not know—what his plans were, the status of his followers, how he had escaped—that Gellert Grindlewald did, indeed, have quite the advantage.
But the scene moved on, unaffected by the torrent of his thoughts or by the ferocity of the revelation.
"You needn't share your secrets, although I do confess I was curious," the pretender in purple robes confided.
By now, the crowd had grown accustomed to the prank and had began enjoying the spectacle, grinning and betting and laughing, but Albus paid them no attention. No, he focused on one, single face among the sea of faces: that of Miss Hermione Granger.
She was the only one of Grindlewald's followers there, as both Gellert and Mr. Ronald Weasley were disguised, and Miss Ginny Weasley was talking with him, Albus, in his office... With all the attention on the two Dumbledores, this was a moment when her face may be unguarded.
Her expression was twisted in a strange combination of emotions—she was primarily happy and amused, but also sad and proud and longing, all at once. Was she proud and happy at how well the prank was playing out, but longing to have been included in the performance? Or was she happy in the moment, and proud of her two friends for doing so well, but wishing that they had more opportunities for moments like this? Missing her family and wishing she were with them, but happy and proud of herself for keeping them out of Grindlewald's grasp? What was she thinking?
Minerva McGonagall spoke angrily, tightly, and proudly, her voice forcing Albus out of his musings "Then I suppose that this will have to be done differently."
The two clones had barely enough time to glance at one another, amused, before they were attacked by her rapid-fire interrogation.
"What subject did you teach, before you became headmaster?" Minerva McGonagall demanded of the Dumbledore who was wearing his glasses wrong.
"The same magnificent art as you do."
Not a terribly difficult question to answer, certainly, as Albus had still been teaching when Grindewald was at large, and there were certainly records that were easy to reach, but worth noting all the same. At this point, Albus needed every clue he could get, even if Gellert was carefully regulating the information he could receive.
Minerva McGonagall turned to the other copy of the headmaster. "Where did you grow up?"
"My younger years were spent in an adorable little village called Mold on the Would, but once I turned ten or so we moved to the charming Godric's Hollow."
Again, it was a simple question with an easy answer, but the fact that both impostors, Grindlewald and Mr. Ronald Weasley, knew the answers so quickly and easily was important. It implied, certainly, that Mr. Ronald Weasley was also older than his apparent years, or else that Grindelwald had confided much in him.
The questions resumed, again addressing the impostor whose glasses were not quite right. "What does your brother do for a living?"
"Why, he runs the Hog's Head—quite a place, I tell you," the fake said, smiling reminiscently in such a benign, natural way that, if he had not known better, Albus himself may have been fooled—that is, if his glasses were right. "You get all sorts there."
This was common knowledge, of course, but the speedy, unhesitating response only confirmed Albus's earlier suspicions.
"What is your favorite candy?"
"I do love chocolate frogs tremendously—it's such fun to see myself on the cards—but I've taken quite a fancy to those Lemon Drops," he paused, reflecting, then offered charmingly, "I have some up in my office, if you'd like to try them."
"Your favorite jam?"
"Raspberry," he said promptly, smiling happily, "without contest. I think I see some over there; do you mind passing it to me? I confess I missed lunch, and having only just made it to dinner am rather famished."
Albus briefly closed his eyes and breathed deeply. This was new and shocking—back when he had been seventeen, he had hated jam altogether, and Albus now remembered quite clearly the occasion on which he had complained, more in jest than anything else, to Gellert that his mother simply could not bring herself to serve a breakfast that didn't include jam.
And here Grindlewald knew, not only that he now liked jam, but also the specific flavor.
Albus opened his eyes, not wanting to miss even the slightest clue, and consoled himself with the knowledge that his old friend, old foe had plenty of opportunities to observe him at meals, and if he had been paying attention, it would have been all too easy to realize that the headmaster was quite partial to raspberry jam.
Minerva McGonagall continued, again addressing the Dumbledore in purple robes, "Your favorite music?"
"Ah, chamber music. I've always said it is a magic beyond all we do here."
But of course, his chocolate frog card had mentioned thus, so surely, surely there is not yet cause for panic.
Minerva McGonagall frowned, her frustration clearly mounting to a distinctly impressive degree, and questioned of the Dumbledore with funny glasses, "Who was your predecessor?"
"A delightful man by the name of Armando Dippet. Brilliant man, I say, if a bit naive at times, he more than made up for it with his personality."
Precisely something Albus would say, masterfully crafting an answer that spoke both highly and truthfully of Armando Dippet, without betraying the frustration and disappointment that Albus had often felt under his reign as headmaster. Ingeniously, cleverly, subtly added, spoken in Albus's own tone and diction...
But there was something there, a piece of the puzzle that did not quite fit, that caught Albus's attention for a moment, though he could not decide what it was, so he seized the sense of doubt, considered it, and filed it away for further contemplation.
For now, he could not miss a single clue.
"What gift did I give you for Christmas?"
"Ah, it was a grand, thick book," he said tranquilly and composedly, as if he was entirely unaware of the horror that his calm tone and sparkling eyes and infuriatingly vast knowledge of such private matters caused the true Albus Dumbledore, "though I could have sworn I specifically said I'd prefer a pair of thick woolen socks."
For this, there was neither an interpretation, nor an easy explanation. How could Gellert have known? Why would he have bothered? What did it mean that he did know?
And, above all, why was he telling Albus that he knew?
Minerva McGonnogal again addressed the Dumbledore with funny glasses, her eyes narrowed and lips pursed, and sternly demanded, "What did I say when you asked for advise in choosing a Divination professor?"
"You seemed to think it was a rather woolly subject, if I'm not very much mistaken."
"What is your philosophy about death?"
"Why, I'm flattered to know you remember an old man's mumblings! I said that to the well-organized mind, it is but the next great adventure—to consider that a philosophy might be a bit much, but it is a thought just the same."
The situation only grew worse and worse, as Gellert revealed more and more of what both he and his follower knew, and Albus could not help but wonder where the line stopped and which of his secrets—if any—were safe.
Even as Albus's worry grew, so too did Minerva McGonagall's frustration and anger.
"Minerva," one of the fakes soothed, smiling lightly and obviously enjoying himself—the thought twisted Albus's innards painfully—"You really shouldn't get so worked up! It's clear that the impostor, whichever of us he might be, put a good deal of work into this prank."
"Come now, Minerva," the purple cloaked one said kindly, "It's a pleasant evening and this prank is virtually harmless. Why don't you just relax and enjoy it?"
His voice was kind and cajoling, a gentle mocking too subtle for anyone who did not already know to pick up on it, but Albus had fallen to that tone, that manipulation long ago.
"Come on, Albus," Gellert said, grinning back at him, "Just relax, we're only having fun. Besides, it's for the greater good, remember? We'll have to get our hands a little dirty to if we want power, and without power how can we help anyone?"
His voice had been kind and understanding, so that Albus would recognize that he only wanted what was "best"; calm and logical, so that Albus would feel the plans were well-developed and trustworthy; and gently, ever so faintly chiding, so that Albus would feel it was him that wasn't thinking clearly, him that was muddling things up.
Grindlewald had not forgotten that tried-and-proven tactic, and was even employing it in this performance that he knew would get back to Albus...
It was a threat, Albus realized with a sickening jolt, a threat that Grindlewald had control and power and support, and that it was all building every day. And what could Albus do to change any of it? Grindlewald would not have done all of this unless he knew that Albus had no options... He never had been one to bluff, and if there was even the slightest chance that Albus could pull one over on him, than Gellert would never have done this.
Somehow, the fact that Minerva McGonagall was not convinced by Grindlewald's tactics lifted his heart, just a little, and he watched with something akin to relief as she glared at the two impostors. She said, "Very well, I will refrain from interrogating you, but I still think—"
Professor Flitwick, rising to his feet and smiling broadly, interrupted her with a suggestion of his own. "Might I recommend," he squeaked good-naturedly, "that we have our two resident Dumbledores duel? I daresay that we professors know our headmaster well enough to recognize his style, and it might—ahem—discourage our pranksters from trying this stunt again?"
Ah, so they were now nearing the duel that had the other professors so impressed...
"A charming idea," said the Dumbledore whose glasses did not fit quite right, his eyes sparkling with benign delight and gentle mischief, his beard twitching just so in a kind, excited smile, "And I certainly hope you are up for the challenge."
"The day Albus Dumbledore isn't ready for a challenge is..." The other Dumbledore hesitated briefly, reflecting as he cocked his head to one side and continued in a manner that was at once collected and kind and ever so slightly embarrassed, "Well, I suppose it's likely to happen quite soon—old age and all that."
Despite it all, Albus felt his lips turn up at that, and wished that he could enjoy the prank simply for the performance it was, rather than comb through it relentlessly for hidden meanings and clues that just might decide the fate of the world.
And really, was that so much to ask?
Presently, both of the Dumbledores bowed deeply to one another—the one in purple robes wavered, just a little, at the deepest point of the bow, but no one seemed to have noticed—then straightened and raised their wands. For a brief moment, they stared at one another, each analyzing his opponent, and Albus felt the faintest urge to laugh. Neither one was balanced the way Albus would have been, the one in purple robes was standing at the wrong angle (it inhibited his range of motion, which would prevent him from utilizing more complex spells and wand movements), the one who wore the glasses improperly clenched his wand too tight, and both had hesitated a fraction of a second longer than was wise.
But Gellert Grindlewald had always valued having impeccable form—which begged the question: What if all of this was a bluff? What if this demonstration of less-than-perfection meant that Gellert was neither as strong nor as prepared as he ought to be? Or what if he only wanted Albus to assume as much?
Nearly a full second had passed after the two had straightened up, but before the duel properly began.
It truly was a spectacular duel, with fire and birds and pillows and chasms to keep both competitors—as well as all of their spectators—on their toes. Both Dumbledores performed brilliantly (and what a performance!), casting spells that were dramatic but effective and somehow predicting one another's moves before they were cast.
All the same, Albus watched it play out more or less stoically until there was a bit of magic that even he did not recognize: animating the suits or armor. Oh he knew how he would do it—he would tap into the wards and weave a runic incantation into them, or cast a blanket compulsion charm keyed to the metal, or conduct a simple animation spell through the stone floor. There was, of course, more than one way to skin a kneazle—though why anyone would want to do anything half so barbaric was beyond him—and, similarly, more than one way to stimulate the suits of armor. He and Minerva McGonagall had once discussed many of them, in fact. However, each of them required, at the very least, a three-part wand movement or a verbal command, rather than the single flick that Albus had seen.
The duel went on until its rather abrupt ending—one of the Dumbledores was caught by a Wingardium Leviosa and its subsequent stunner.
An awed silence hung heavily in the air for a few seconds, before it was broken as students and teachers alike—and ghosts, too, once he thought to check—cheered and applauded enthusiastically. Albus's attention, however, was trained once again on Miss Hermione Granger, who was biting her lip but looked to be full to bursting with pride as she looked on.
She was proud, then, of her friends and their performance, so she either didn't know about Grindlewald's true identity, didn't care, or fully supported him. At least she was not being held against her will—through blackmail or what-have-you—Albus consoled himself.
The scene went on, as Filius Flitwik took advantage of a lull in the noise to exclaim, "That was quite the show! I certainly hope our upper-level students were able to glean something from that—very nicely done!"
Minerva McGonagall, however, was not feeling as charitable as Filius Flitwick and interrupted the charming, kind-hearted fellow. "But it doesn't answer the question! However good a dueler you both are, I don't think any of us could distinguish much between your styles, let alone match which one was closer to the real Dumbledore's."
The purple-roped Dumbledore smiled indulgently and straightened his spectacles, but shook his head. "Alas, I can't help you, I'm afraid. And in any event, what good would my word be? Whatever I said, you'd still believe it was nothing more than a ploy."
Minerva McGonagall warred with herself for a long moment before she conceded and gifted them with a small smile. "I expect the Polyjuice will wear off shortly, in any event. You have succeeded, and I think your prank is—creditable—of a few house points, as soon as we know who you are."
Minerva McGonagall, however, was not done with her interrogation; indeed, as they all sat down and resumed eating, she leveled both Dumbledores with a stern look and said, "I didn't want to bring this up in front of the entire school, but I'd really like to figure out which of you is the impostor. Consider it Gryffindor pride. Now, one of you, whoever is the real Dumbledore, came to me the night he defeated Grindelwald and was extremely upset about something. Which of you can tell me what that is?"
The clones—both of them—paled and exchanged glances, and Albus, again seized with reckless fury, lashed out. His arm went through the table once again, so he kicked at the table leg with his foot—nothing happened—and he stomped the ground in uncontrollable fury. His foot fell right through the solid marble floor, and then he was falling, falling, falling, until he landed in a crumpled heap on his office floor.
He did not move, but instead lay there, with his head buried in the crook of his arm and his left leg bent at an uncomfortable angle.
Logically, he knew that it was foolish to feel betrayed and angered that Grindelwald's followers—or at least the one follower—knew his darkest secret, so he refused to feel either emotion. Of course Grindelwald would have told them.
No, what startled—no, shocked—no, terrified Albus was the pain and bewilderment and hopelessness that had scrawled itself across both of the Dumbledores faces. Albus could understand seeing it in Gellert's face—maybe even rejoiced to see it there—but it was foreign and strange on his follower's.
After a long, torturous moment, he picked himself up, collected his thoughts, and reentered the Penseive. The scene picked up as if he had never left
"It's alright, you don't need to answer." One of the Dumbledores was speaking, his lips twisted in a smile that looked more like a grimace. Minerva McGonagall's eyes widened and her grip tightened on her goblet. "Good question, professor, and it was the right one to ask." Albus hardly realized when Minerva McGonagall jumped to be addressed as professor; he was preoccupied with the way his clone's eyes had grown troubled. "Harry Potter, at your service."
His heart pounding viciously in his chest, Albus ignored the reactions of his colleagues—it was enough to know they were shocked—and watched instead the interaction between the two Dumbledores. The pain in each of their eyes had deadened a little, overwhelmed by some other, lighter emotion. Pride? Satisfaction? Affection?
Whatever it was, it was gone half a second later, because when they made eye contact, amusement (probably at the extreme reactions of their audience) won out and they promptly began howling with laughter. They laughed and laughed with such vigor and youth that Albus suddenly felt old, extremely old, despite the fact—or perhaps because or it—that one or both of them had lived as many years as he had.
"Blimey, Harry," one of the Dumbledores said, choking out the words between his guffaws, "That was... bloody awesome!... I could hardly... keep from laughing!"
"So neither of you are Dumbledore?" Professor Marcus Kettleburn demanded, and they both shook their heads.
The Dumbledore with the funny glasses managed to gasp, "Ron Weasley."
That was, of course, the moment that the true Albus had entered the hall the original time, with Miss Ginny Weasley trailing behind him.
"Minerva, have you seen my wand—Oh! Dear me, I seem to have missed quite a show. I'd so like to have seen it, too..."